Looking for Yellow

in which a butterfly and a three-year-old teach me about finding beauty in unexpected places

The weather matched the concrete neighborhood around us. Dark clouds loomed overhead. There was a definite chill in the air that wasn’t there last week. The gloomy day made everything look particularly dull and dirty.

It was cold, temperatures hanging not too far above freezing, but I forced us both outside anyway. My daughter and I played half-heartedly at the playground, the wind whipping hard between the highrises. We shoved our hands in our coat pockets, our shoulders scrunched up to our ears while we trudged through the sand.

When I finally conceded to her protests to go inside, I made us take the long way around. Because it’s good to get outside and get some fresh air! I hurrahed, trying to convince myself too.

To distract ourselves, we played Color Walk, something we’ve done in the past to shake up our outside time. The rules are simple: Pick a color and try to spot it as many times as we can on our walk. Take photos, too.

To counter the dull dreariness around us, we chose yellow.

For a while, it was mostly all various shades of gray: gray buildings, gray parking garages, gray retaining walls, and gray skies. But then my daughter looked a few steps ahead of her and shouted, “Yellow trash!” and held up a crumpled yellow juice box.

I matched her enthusiasm when I spotted a yellow taxi turning the corner, its tires crossing over yellow lines in the parking lot. A woman walked past us with her two terriers named Harry and Chocolate (we asked), in their bright yellow harnesses. We passed a lilac bush. All its leaves had turned a papery yellow. My daughter picked up one of its lost leaves skittering on the ground and waved it high above her head. It fluttered in her hand like a tiny flag.

There was a yellow plastic bag blown up against a bare-branched bush, yellow graffiti spray painted along the ground, the cracked yellow plastic seats of the teeter-totter, and a yellow shovel left behind in the sand.

Then we turned a corner and found a rosebush still blooming in November. What a sight. Five, six, seven pastel yellow heads sat comfortably deep in the green leaves.

Around this time of year, clouds usually start their descent around me, hanging heavy on my shoulders and fogging my vision. Nine years and it doesn’t get any easier living half a world away from home and family during the holidays.

Braided with homesickness and all the memories I’ve missed out on are the question marks that suspend in front of me and the uncertainty lurking in the back of my mind. There’s this longing for a life beyond here floating just out of reach, like dust motes in the weak light. I’m also carrying the broken pieces of loved ones close to me right now. Prayers for hope, healing, and things to be made right wake me in the small hours of the dark.

And there is so much darkness, isn’t there?

The thing about playing Color Walk with a three-year-old is that the rules get a little fluid. When we saw the yellow roses and clipped off a blossom to bring back inside, my daughter spotted more flowers growing near them: purple-blue stems of a lavender bush and crimson red winterberries.

And then we saw the heads of dandelions smattered along the concrete curb and a lethargic bee, still above ground.

A man with a bright red scarf wrapped around his neck stepped out of a parked car. Grade school boys wearing Chicago Bulls t-shirts and Messi jerseys kicked around a blue soccer ball on the basketball court. A discarded cigarette lay at my feet, the smudge of coral lipstick left behind on it. The setting sun broke through the gray, causing the clouds to turn pink as they passed behind the highrises and cranes.

The gray of the world began to melt away.

When my daughter was a baby, we’d stare at her for hours, trying to memorize every fold of her skin, every dimple, every roll—all the lines and dots and marks that made up this swaddled chubby life asleep in our arms. We knew even then that babies don’t keep.

So I did the same that day. I tried to memorize her skipping next to me, singing This Little Light of Mine as we searched for yellow. I felt the soft curl of the rose petals in my hands and took in the bee, the taxi, the lipstick, the clouds—because I knew this season wouldn’t keep.

Running ahead, my daughter spotted something in the dying grass and called me over to get a closer look. A butterfly rested motionless on a blade of grass. When we moved closer, it snapped open its wings, revealing iridescent cobalt blue and russet brown spots.

Despite its name, the common blue butterfly is not so common, especially this time of year and especially in a place like this, far from meadows and gardens where these species typically thrive.

We watched the butterfly slowly open and close its wings, like a fan on a languorously hot day. The staccato knocking of a drill, exhaust fumes, and the clatter of traffic filled the air. We were a long way from grassy meadows and sunny, lush gardens. This creature was in a habitat not made for them, but it seemed unperturbed by this fact.

It moved suddenly like it had just remembered something on its to-do list, startling us both. We hauled ourselves up from the cold grass and watched the butterfly skitter and coast out of sight.

The very next morning it snowed. It was the earliest I’ve ever seen it snow since living here. The wind blew against the window pane in the kitchen, and I peeked behind the curtain to see what was happening outside.

It was still dark. No other apartment lights were on quite yet, although I like to think there could have been more like me watching out of darkened windows, taking in the magic of the early snow. In the pool of the yellow streetlights, thousands of tiny snowflakes swirled and spun, looking like pinpricks of light in the thick darkness.

A Blessing for the Soul Weary

May this season be one where we dig deep and pull up a sprout of joy. And may we hold on to that joy, however small, amidst the hard and heavy—for it is holy. When the cold and dark and dreary threaten to overtake our vision, may our eyes tune to the other colors this season brings: the green of the pine trees swaying in the backyard, the blinking yellow lights along the neighbor’s roof, the midnight blue of the sky right before bed, and the soft white of the sun rising again (and again and again and again). With battered and tired fingers, may we build an altar of thanksgiving. May we embrace what is and trust in the Living Hope for what may be. This season, may we find a place to lay down our burdens and gently make room for wonderment.