"A word is a being." M.C. Richards

In an interview in The Sun, M. C. Richards, the author of ‘Centering’, said, “Try asking yourself where the words are before you speak them. I think we make a mistake in trying to restrict a word into something that we can read about in a dictionary. A word is a being. Writing becomes a more intimate and inspired activity when you see you’re writing out of your substance, out of the mystery.”

Earlier in the interview, she spoke about color. She had observed that children in Waldorf schools use color to make words, so she took up that practice too. She discovered that spiritual awareness can come “through something as basic as color--making some kind of contact with that reality we call color.”

I find myself sitting in the doldrums these past few days, a becalmed, no headway experience lacking color. I ask myself, where are the doldrums before I name it? There is something intimate to be seen here, but it seems there is no forcing it. It’s like night vision. If I look closely, or strain to look, I can’t see.

What soothes most is color. The window above my desk holds the view of lilacs coming on against the intense blue of the Southwestern sky. Vinca is valiantly blooming in the drought. This is a ground cover considered a weed in many parts of the world, but here is a welcome blue flower and shiny green leaves. A few miniature hyacinths popped up their blue-purple. The roses are getting ready to bloom--they will bring a brief flurry of pink and orange.

In my stitching, I am attracted to the bright tropical colors. This desire for the brights I suspect is arising from the same longing that wants to fully live life, that wants the veil to dissolve. But, dear thing, it keeps looking elsewhere, in the future. A different place, a different circumstance. Anything but this.

There is a place in the ocean near the equator called the doldrums, a place where the waters are often becalmed, or there are sudden unexpected small storms. The word apparently comes from “dull.” Not shiny, tarnished. I feel this in my solar plexus--a gray dullness. This and a persistent cough are the residue of the flu.

If thinking in the form of “something is wrong here” didn’t arise, I suppose I would curl up like a cat, go for walks, eat delicious foods, and enjoy cool drinks. I would more easily let the mystery work itself through without worrying at it so much. Eventually a small storm is likely to refresh and invigorate movement and vibrancy. In the meantime, I’ll bring some lilacs indoors for my table, and then I’ll go buy some more bright silk embroidery floss to add to my stitching.