Pulling At Threads
(On finding the color palette of your own soul + a look inside my new office space)
“Sometimes a thing in front of you is so big you don’t know whether to comprehend it first by getting a dim sense of the whole and then fitting in the pieces or by adding up the pieces until something calls out what it is.”
~Norman Maclean | A River Runs Through It
I remember sitting on turquoise leather-cushioned dining chairs pulled up to the long dining table in my granparents 1950’s rambler on a hot Miami Sunday afternoon. The table, spread with buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken and all the sides, my sweating can of Dr. Pepper in front of me, my cheeks, full of mashed potatoes. For a season, this was our habit—an after-church luncheon and visitation with my maternal grands. Our visit was a familiar routine, a near-predictable rhythm, except for one detail. Whether or not my grandmother would come out of her dark bedroom tucked back at the end of the hall to join us for a greasy chicken leg, was anyone’s guess.
In my memory, she rarely made it to the table, but the truth is I really can’t recall how often she sat on one of her beloved turquoise cushions. She was almost an apparition. Through her art, and her love of color, and her insistence on beauty, she inhabited every room of her home, while her body lay mostly hidden in sweats-soaked sheets, behind a bedroom door nearly closed—except for a gap enough to let the cat in. And her mind?, well, as best I could tell it was somewhere else entirely. A secret garden, or maybe a secret jungle. She wasn’t saying, and so mostly we couldn’t know.
I remember every one else at the table, and, that I always loved the color of those chairs.
Puling at threads…
Our lives are filled with touchstones, those things that guide us (even without our conscious permission) and those things which we return to again and again, all along the way. For the last handful of year, as I’ve been sorting my own various rocks, there’s this one that keeps showing up.
This “stone” is turquoise (or various shades of it). It turns out that all of my life, the experiences that once seemed so small and insignificant have been shaping my soul and forming for me, a color palette that only now in my middle years, is coming into bloom.
“…Universally, people tend to favor some hues over others.”
It takes a lifetime to pull the threads of our stories together, and every strand and color has its own significance. All of it belongs.
A year ago we hired a painter to paint my office a gorgeous, enigmatic color beautifully called, “Still Water”.1 This color defies categorization. In certain light, the green undertones play so dominantly before your eyes, you're apt to call the walls green. But other times, you’ll not think twice before calling it blue. I love that it’s both. And more than that, I love the way this color makes me feel when I step fully into this space.
I don’t see this color, I experience it in my soul. If that sounds weird to you, there is science behind the experience of color. In their book, Your Brain On Art,2 Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross explain that “…sound isn’t the only vibrational aesthetic experience that can alter mood. Color is also vibration in that it is energy, and it has biological and psychological effects.”
A couple of months ago, we began a project in my office that included the building and installation of a built-in bookshelf/desk combo. I knew when we planned the project that I wanted the shelves to be painted to match the walls. Would that be too much color?, the people in my house asked. No, I told them without hesitation.
Every time I step into this room I’m working to name specifically what is it about this color that I love so much. I’m trying to figure out exactly what is going on in me—the experiences feels existential. It feels important, like it matters.
Is it nostalgia? Is it memory? Is it a form of grief or homesickness that soothes, rather than hurts? Can homesickness or grief be a balm? I know this much, the experience of this color is a peaceful one. There is no stitch of pain in these still water walls. This color feels like a welcome cocoon. A soft blanket. A sense of being known.
Family ties…
The experience of being in my new office space is deeply personal. This color is a familial thread I’ve been pulling on for years. My grandmother’s story, my mother’s story, my story—we are all wrapped up here together in this turquoise. Art, creativity, inspiration, sickness, loss, grief and rebirth—each a knot in this thread. Each, a touchstone of its own within our overlapping stories. We are a Venn diagram. Circles within circles. Our stories within each others stories.
It’s taken me years to realize that in those days gathered around my Grandfather’s table on turquoise chairs rooted me in a way that I desperately needed. We were pilgrims then, relocating on the government’s orders. My Dad’s military career had us moving every couple of years to some new location, only to pull up roots to do it again 24 months later. Wash, rinse, repeat.
We lived in houses, but I experienced a home-lessness I am only now able to name. I learned early on not to get too attached to anyone, or any place. I got to see places and experience things most kids my age had not, but I will tell you, developing a habit of detachment is not necessarily a strength.
That extended season in Miami added a thread to the tapestry of my life. These people were our blood. That home had been my mother’s as a child. It was like the coral beneath the grass in the yard—cemented in place for all time. I had traveled the globe, but there was a place that stood immovable. And there we were, sitting within those storied walls, generations around a table like we’d been there forever. Like we might never leave.
But of course we did leave. And eventually the house sold, and my grandparents died, and the art my grandmother made with her life, before mental-illness consumed her, is long gone now, except for in memory. And except for the way I remember her every time I enter my office. Or play with my paints. Or notice beautiful things that I’m sure she would have used in her interior design business.
Ghosts and finding home…
This is a strange season here. New things are being birthed in my work and my vocations. I’m dreaming a lot about what path to take. I’m having a lot of quiet conversations with God, which mostly means I’m doing more listening than talking. I have more creative ideas than I can sort out, and certainly more than I can accomplish in one lifetime, and all of it feels invitational and curious. Interestingly, the color of my walls could be a contributing factor to to this new wave of creative energy.
Magsamen and Ross write, “…Because color transmits different frequencies and vibrations, practitioners are able to use a color’s specific properties to shift the energy—and frequencies—within our bodies. …One study concluded that blues and greens in mild hues help calm people in a work setting, reducing stress, and fostering more creativity.”3
All creativity springs from God’s hand, whether the practitioner acknowledges this Truth or not. Since God is the creator of color, and clearly loves color, it doesn’t seem too impossible to believe that color would play many important roles in the world at large, and in our smaller, more personal worlds. My mysterious connection to this particular color haunts me. I can’t help but wonder if color is genetic—can we pass on a love for a color through our DNA? Is my grandmother’s obsession with shades of peacock blue an inherited trait in me?
Remember years ago, when the decorating guru’s all told us shades of whites and grays were THE colors to surround ourselves with in our homes? I’d heeded their advice and white-washed my life to fit in. And it was pretty, I guess, but it never felt like me. That was before life turned inside out and spun me sick on the tilt-a-whirl of grief and loss. That was before the revelation that I’d been living a good chunk of my adult years, torqued and bent from trying to please people who refuse to be pleased.
This is a season of new. This is the after-life. That woman willing to mute the colors that brought her joy in order to make others comfortable is a ghost to me now. She lingers, but she is translucent. She does not make the calls.
When I walk into my office space now, I feel instantly calm, I feel joy, I feel warm and enveloped. I feel connected to my past, to my roots. I feel inspired and hopeful. I feel like myself, welcomed and accepted.
Most of all, I feel at home.
PS: I’ve been on an adventure looking for the ways this particular color has been sneaking its way into my life for the last handful of years. It’s all over my art journal and my personal Instagram feed—if you scroll my squares—you’ll see what I mean. And Oh! I went back an double-checked. It’s been nearly a year since I came home with that gorgeous Emu egg. Just one more (of the many) places this color has called out to me. Check it out.
I’m so curious, how does color affect you? What is your personal color palette? What do you think this color says about you—or what’s it saying to you?
I always enjoy seeing what’s on other people’s shelves. Here’s a few close-ups of mine.
I had the distinct privilege of interviewing my friend, Summer Joy Gross about her book, The Emmanuel Promise: Discovering The Security of a Life Held By God, where we discussed the ways attachment theory affects how we connect with God. I loved our conversation and Summer’s books is a gift. You can still pre-order it and it releases on April 30.
I’m about to schedule my next Art workshop! I’m reeeeaallly excited about this one. If you’re a lover of memoir, and stories, and want to spend some creative time reflecting on your own story, this one is for YOU. Oh! And this workshop includes a snail-mail component! As a thank you for supporting my work, access to this workshop is FREE for paying Substack subscribers. Upgrade your subscription to join us for free, or you will have the opportunity to register for it separately. Did I mention I’m excited about this?! Details and a date for that are coming soon.
My friends The Smuckers just bought a bookshop! I’m soooo excited for them and can’t wait to see how this unfolds. Hop on over to
or ‘s Substack and cheer them on. And if you live nearby, maybe take them a cup of coffee while they get things set up. They are doing Good work in the world.
Thanks for reading, friends. I’m crazy-grateful for you.
“Still Water” by Sherwin Williams. “…lends calm and mysterious vibes to your space.”
Your Brain On Art: How The Arts Transform Us, Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross.
Your Brain On Art: How The Arts Transform Us, Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross. (Speaking about Color Therapy)
Your colors, the peacock blue/green with the gold accents, THIS is your signature, friend! It's so lovely and the space is so you. You know I love when a woman has a space ; ) I love seeing the photos.
My color has become green. I used to never be able to say what my favorite color was because that felt so permanent, but the deep green of the forest has made me feel that inexplicable feeling you describe. And funny, how so many things I've carried through life are actually *green*, like my great-grandmother's chair.
Oh my goodness I love every word and image in this piece. All of it. So excited for you to have a place to create and calm in.