The Moors of Yorkshire/Rainbows/Love

Just a little something. I spent a rainy afternoon in dear Yorkshire musing, and this is my product.

The Moors of Yorkshire/Rainbows/Love

I love the moors ofYorkshire. They are so green and brown and purple and grey, but they are bright and vibrant and natural through the rain, where grey often reminds me of blur and sameness and lack of life and novelty.

When I see the colour grey, if as a ‘colour’ it is significant enough to be labelled, I can’t help but think of myself, hiding behind a dramatic mask of dull greys and blues and greens, camouflaged against the plethora of dull colours already polluting the ambiance. The grey is me, destroyed cloud and verdure, so that no living eyes can perceive the radiant rainbow that I am.

I am a misunderstood person—as are we all—so therefore, when I say that I am a rainbow, I reckon it would be more beneficial to both of us if I did deign to clarify my metaphor.

I deign: I am my own rainbow, the spectrum that I see is who I am, who I created and how I was created through God, and God through I.

But my rainbow can be, sometimes, too bright and busy for the comfort of my sensitive timidity and intense fear of rejection. I am uncomfortable in my true vivacious colours amidst the greys and blues and greens of the disinterested and the dull.

This begs the queries: is every other soul really so dully hued? Why am I the special one with a rainbow for an identity?

Yet I cannot but remember that I have hidden my rainbow from easy sight, denied the free inclination of my spirit, demolished the liberties of true friendship. My dear rainbow is screened and lost behind a thick shroud of embarrassment and shame.

Is not every other soul the same, like me, each a great rainbow?—But each will run and hide and act and mask to be camouflaged with the common dullness of the rabble.

Who decided that such a thing should be the way of society? Who said that every rainbow should blend with every other?—Rather than that they should be a chain holding hands across the width and breadth of the land, linked but separate and unique between rain and shine? Who narrowed the spectrum so that each rainbow is confined to a small dull portion of its far and wide potential—each person given the same part with the same lines: a pretentious man or woman, deceived by his or her own odious duplicity, coldly mirroring the flat reflection of every other pretentious man or woman.

The same is beautiful, some soul declared.

But is it with good and sincere truth that civilisation is more comfortable, more joyful, more exhilarating, than the brisk outdoor haven of nature’s wonders? Why is the yellow bud shunned, hued in the fresh colour of oxidised apple flesh as it is, while plastic pink petals are in greedy demand? Who decreed that the young green tree was more comely than its leafless counterpart, though this wise personage has a thousand tiny crooked pitchforks bobbing brave and crisp and youthful as ever against the wrinkled clouds?—it has seen many a storm more than its descendant.

If only we could shine the true colours of our own individual rainbows over the views we can see, who can deny that we would have a more colourful world? Who can deny that we would love and laugh in a different way—but each rippling chuckle or mirthful giggle would be so beautiful—distinct and beloved.

Oh, what is love? I wish I knew, or that I could explain with any clarity. I think love is the strongest bond of attachment and friendship. The links of love are eternal, unbroken forever. Love is awesome, inspirational and ambitious. But it is content, modest and undemanding. It is cataclysmically calm—and infinitely beautiful.

Love is the most powerful emotion, the least corrosive element, the most flexible material in possibility and opportunity.

Love is what I feel for a muddy walk along the gentle curve of a rocky creek, the water clear and perfectly defined, easy-flowing and softly swimming; a path of dirt, rocks and rubble. Love is the amazement when chunks of shale are pulled from a cliff in handfuls, wet and soft and slim. Love is the fresh litheness of the nimble lambs bounding and frolicking in the verdant meadows. Love is the improvised harmony of a community, those attached by blood or by friendship or merely by shared situation—spoken or unspoken, seen or unseen.

Love is breeze and tangle, loose and tumble, strong and fumble, familiar and foreign, smooth and silence. Love is life and beauty and prosperity, but death and wisdom and suffering.

I love the moors of Yorkshire.

The End

3 comments about this exercise Feed