Yesterday, our family enjoyed the autumn afternoon wandering through an open air art show for local artists. Canvases sat propped against flower pots spilling over with asters and mums. People sat at tiny cafe tables sipping their waters and waiting to be served. Storefront doors stood open, inviting people to come in and browse.
One bookstore looked particularly inviting, so we wandered in (all seven of us)! Alas, it was a bundle of failed potential. The poor owner did not even know who G.K. Chesterton was, and certainly did not have any of his books in stock. However, he redeemed himself by supplying us with two tall Sumatras, and we wandered back to the street comfortable with our coffees in hand, coaxing along three little ones who insisted on stuffing their pockets to brim with acorns.
I was drawn by the strong colors of one oil canvas, a field of poppies thickly painted in the foreground. It made me wonder. Why is color so emotionally potent? Just the thought of russet, ocher, sienna, or burnt orange conjure up a sense of happiness in me.
We tumbled our way back to the car, and loaded up our crew, but with me came three things. Sadness, for a book-dealer unable to acquaint me with Chesterton. Thankfulness for the happiness of sharing a cup of coffee with my husband. And appreciation,for the pleasure of strong, vivid colors.
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