The color of natural order

The color of natural order:

I’m in the middle of a room. Each wall is painted a different color. I can interpret the colors any number of ways but there’s an inherent meaning to each one.

A western meaning.

But I’m stuck on one color:

White.

White is death in some cultures; in ours it’s a rebirth, a cleansing. But in my case, maybe it’s both.

Its cyclical, the meaning of white. How it’s both transcendent and pure, but all at once blanketing and absent.

I’m looking at all the things this represents and how it’s saturating my life. Not just my life but also others. But, I’ll stick to what I know:

My grandmother on her deathbed of white sheets.

She sees white lights.

She sees portals and triangles.

Her angel is a little black girl in a pink jumpsuit with little braids in white clips. My grandma really sees her, and I believe her. This little girl was the daughter of a neighbor she knew in Dallas who was killed. I think its so fitting that a little black girl is her angel because my grandma has always been so racist. I think the way god works is exquisite- that someone who has said “nigger” and meant it can have a beautiful little black girl with white clips representing her is the most forgiving thing I can think of. There are no coincidences.

But then there’s the crazy white. I’m watching people suffer, and it’s not for a reason. This white blinds you from understanding how things work. Mystery is stripped of excitement and replaced by fear. Because when something is not understood it’s the most horrific thing.

I’m watching someone die who doesn’t want to die. I’m watching her fade but cling. I’m seeing my mother unravel even though she’s a stone. But I’m unraveling too. When you see the blankness of white, the absence of something tangible, its heartbreaking. Why fight? But she still does. My mom has pleaded with my grandma “when you see white lights, please go. There’s nothing for you here. This is miserable.”

Fucking Darwin said it’s the order of things to fight to win or lose. But bodies shouldn’t break like this. So I question faith and what I’ve built. I’m blind and crave color. My mother does the same. It’s a torture that’s double edged like a sword: their death = your peace, their death = their fear. How can you cope with that? What do you say?

This is how I cope with it:
I have to accept death like a friend. I’ve seen death too much to say it’s not necessary. But it’s so painful. The loss is so great. Even if you aren’t close to them you feel the sting, and when you are close it’s a pain worse than if you died too.

Then I think of my grandma who fights to live even though her life is over. What prompts us to keep going in the midst of phobia? Is it simply the will to live or something greater?

My great Grandmother Ruby said in her journal, “This is life, live it.” She rebelled and was hoydenish. She rose above being labeled. And I have to think that life is just a temporary game that we all play while we have a chance.

I have to learn from this: Take nothing for granted. Not one love or look. Not one opportunity. I don’t believe in conventionalism. I believe in the wild of not knowing. Of plunging in without thinking. Of rising above and growing. I gotta get out of the white, fall into the blue and black, the red of lust and green of new so I can crawl out of this blind faith or lack there of to be something more than a vessel waiting to pass on. I want my last words to be “ I lived.”


-S