Green is the changing face of the sea, reflecting the sky's blues and grays, revealing the golden grains of sand caught in its wash, channeling the magical light of evening into liquid gems.
Green is the color of my daughter's eyes.
But for all its beauty, green has a darker side. It is the funk of fungal growth, the slimy scum of algae, the bitter bile of nausea and the ghastly pallor of illness.
Yesterday I worried and then I wondered, "What is the color of worry?" My eyes ran over the folded piles of cloth on my stitching table and stopped on a gray green. Once part of a dress I often wore and very much liked, still it somehow fit.
It was the perfect patch to reflect my angst. And so I drew one strand of floss after another, invisibly stitching from the inside out, trying to manifest the nervous energy that ricocheted within the box of my fevered mind ... imagining the things I imagine, most of which never come to pass.
Worry is such a pointless, fruitless, worthless, futile activity. It changes nothing, its only creation being a tangle of negative emotions.
What a waste ...