For a while in my twenties, I only could wear beige, white, and black. I was very sick at the time, and in my long recovery, I couldn’t handle the strain of real color. This, in retrospect, is how I know that I was gravely ill, for color is and always has been very important to me.
My abstinence from color had happened once before. That time, I lost my ability to perceive color all together, and it was that loss, coupled with a harbinger of the symptoms that later capsized me, that forced me to accept that I had to separate from my family of origin. The metaphorical and literal often blur dangerously on the blueprint of my body. I suspect this stems from the lifted veil that I take for granted.
By nature I am highly selective about the colors with which I surround myself. The off-tones of the early 1990s hurt my eyes, for example. Those mustards and greyish purples always seemed so joyless–sanctimonious, even, as if it were not PC to shine. (I never viewed a friend who got married in a brown dress the same way again.) In my mid-teens, I was known as “the green girl,” for I liked to wear as many shades of green as possible. It wasn’t an affectation. The green made me feel hopeful and connected to something bigger than myself. Alice May, my mother’s mother, was the only one who understood. She adored green, which she said was the color of life and love. She had a winter green couch that was my favorite place to read. Continue Reading →
I woke up this morning with the Impending Doom feeling. One of the ugliest aspects of being an intuitive is the ability to register in your body that something bad is coming which you can’t prevent. Often, I can’t even tell what it is. I just feel a terrible anxiety, prolonged and prelonged, that I never can write off as being “just in my head.” Case in point: In the days leading up to September 11, 2001, my nerves were so frayed I suddenly moved upstate rather than into the Manhattan apartment I’d been planning to take over from a friend. When watching the Twin Towers collapse from Poughkeepsie, I in no way felt vindicated, just a dull relief that my profound dis-ease now had a face.
All summer I’ve been getting what an ex used to call “ID” (as if uttering the phrase aloud gave it too much power), and all summer hits have duly arrived—upheaval that I may someday regard as necessary, even helpful, but right now experience as wrenching. This morning I got that cruddy feeling again. It may stem from something as simple as a lack of a vacation or (less simply) the approaching anniversary of September 11, but I suspect greater tempests are afoot. In the interim, I wish my gut instincts weren’t so uncomfortably literal.