Yellow

The ever-inspiring Misty Mawn has been hosting a month of journal page prompts on her blog for January. I'm seemingly not ever much in need of prompts - my journal pages arrive for me with relative ease, and even when we fight, a page will eventually emerge. I've been following Misty's blog, and her links to others' pages, as a rabid spectator. However, her most recent prompt (in a week offering color prompts) is YELLOW. It's the first one I've actually felt like responding to. I never really use that color, although recently I stocked up on yellow papers and some paints. I went out to my patio roost to contemplate: I haven't done a canvas in SO LONG, and this morning I was in the mood to do something different than journaling. So I began writing in my journal about what yellow means to me ... and by the end of my writing, I realized this IS my journal page. My 'yellow' journal page. In words only -- and isn't that a form of journaling?

What I wrote:
Yellow, huh? Makes me think of books, old text, 'vintage', so maybe I'm taking a sienna detour. It also makes me think of dancing, i.e. the tango, or to a good solid old-school funk riff like Brick House. Heat. Beaches and sand on a hot July day. The birth of an idea, how that feels inside, an opening, something separating itself from all the rest and stepping forward. Turning leaves. Sunlight on wet stones. The internal lifting sensation when I witness an entire flock of birds take-off from hiding in tree branches. A parade. The prairie, blooming in wheat. Peeling the husk back from sweet corn. The rustle of a train in tall river grass - that's a yellow sound. Popcorn, and slicing into a stick of butter when cooking. Clothespins. Sewing patterns. Hoop earrings, the gesture I make sliding them into my earlobes. Sunlight slanting through slightly-opened wooden shutters onto a white blanket as I lay down to nap. Cranking an old fashioned bell on a bicycle handle. The clack of keys from an old-fashioned typewriter. Rusted round weights scattered around the weight bench on the patio. Pasta being shaped into ravioli by an elderly woman's gnarled, deft hands. Venetian lace being tatted. Embroidery hoops. A lizard poised, paused, on a masonry wall, tanning itself. Particle board running through a circular saw. Shrimp and yellow squash on a kabob. Poolside cabana-striped umbrellas. The presence and sound of a bumblebee twirling around my diet coke can. The sensation of kneading Sculpey clay. The movement of my sons in my belly when I was pregnant. The energy I associate with the simply saying of Frida Kahlo's name. Creme brulee. The metallic click of an old silver desk fan. Saffron and camels. My first good long stretch in the morning. The iron sizzling onto a pair of starched, wet jeans. The core of a dying ember in a campfire, late at night. Freshly laundered pillow cases. A bottle of Cuervo Gold on a window ledge. Smelling new flavors of tea at an import store. Taking off my bra at the end of a work day. Smiling.