Monochrome

Yesterday afternoon-into-evening, I had a brief crisis of faith: the kind of quiet questioning that happens frequently after our alarmingly early winter sunsets.

Last night’s crisis occurred first as a simple strain of restlessness, the craving for color that usually sets in much later in the winter, when Winter Drab threatens to crush my spirit. In past years, I’ve amassed a slew of Winter Coping Strategies, like going to a greenhouse to photograph flowers, strolling through an elegant or exotic museum exhibit, going to an aquarium to stare at the soothing serenity and bright hues of tropical fish, or even lingering long in the grocery store produce section, drawn and sustained by the abundance of greens, reds, oranges, and yellows.

But this year, many museums, aquariums, and greenhouses are closed, and I haven’t set foot in a grocery store since March. Going anywhere indoors and lingering to look–or going anywhere with shared air and stopping to take a deep breath–is risky in these pandemic days, and scrolling through online galleries or virtual aquariums doesn’t have the same appeal.

Last night, I pulled out the big guns, relying upon a Winter Coping Strategy I typically reserve for the dismal days of February-into-March, when I’ve given up all hope of Spring every arriving: while slogging through my evening chores, I tuned to a salsa station on Pandora and danced like nobody was watching. The world outside is dark and monochromatic, but if I close my eyes and listen, I can pretend I hear the music of a Someday Spring.