Sometimes I feel like this picture. Peaceful, alive, reaching for the light. Silent and contained, like for this brief period now at the end of the school year, when I realize we have all, in fact, survived. That many things were good.
My students gave their spring recital last night. There was a moment, when all 14 were playing, filling the little church stage, where I really couldn’t believe we were all doing this together—making music. Not perfectly, but with intent, with purpose, with seriousness and joy all mixed together.
I suppose we are green, all of us. My students are young, inexperienced, but learning. As for myself, the more I go through this life the more I realize that I still don’t know exactly how to live it—at least not the way I envisioned it when I was a teenager looking at adults in their mysterious-but-boring middle years. And here I am, knowing what I want to be about, but realizing that every day is an experiment, and that I am constantly in new territory.
Green is “I still feel new at this but I’ve learned to believe in growth and I’m going to keep sending these tender, imperfect shoots out into the world.” Green is hope.
Sometimes green is going through the whole party feeling pretty satisfied with yourself—slightly glamorous, even—until you discover the great big gob of spinach stuck between your front teeth.
Green is new life, tender feet, everything-old-is-made-new-again. Green is coolness and good, the backdrop to the flower, the fluttering grace on the tree. Green is all things thriving, welcoming the light.
Green is fantasy—an Emerald City
