nightly, beside the green green grass
As the days start to stretch longer and the heat starts to settle in, one of my favourite things to do is to go to a park, lie down on the grass, and look up at the trees. The light catches the leaves just so and reflects back a spectrum of warm yellows and greens. Sometimes, the foliage is so dense, all I can see are tiny pockets of blue, white, and light almost hidden between each leaf.
When I’m lucky, a soft breeze will pick up, and weave its way through each branch. Each leaf dances and flutters at even the slightest touch of the wind. The green-yellow-green that flickers through my eyes reminds me of the feeling of a montage of two characters in a rom-com falling in love set to Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer, or singing mmm it’s always better when we’re together, yeah we’ll look at the stars when we’re together with new friends after a long day of dance rehearsal. Reminds me of the feeling of putting on my favourite denim jacket, faded and worn in in all the right places.
I can stay here for hours. (And often, I do.)
we will do better next time, this is a good beginning
Ginkgo season snuck up on me this year. I always look forward to seeing their beautiful green leaves sprout out after a long winter — tiny, almost gingerly at first, then unfurling into near-symmetrical arches. Each ginkgo tree looks so different from one another; someone I used to know once said they “look like trees that don’t know how to do math yet” with their limbs splayed and bent at random angles.
I associate ginkgo trees with new beginnings. My first encounter with them was during the late summer / early fall between senior year of high school and freshman year of university. I saw a single, perfect, symmetrical ginkgo leaf on the ground. I’d never seen anything like it before. I picked it up to press and paste in my journal.
I kept the image of the leaf close to me, turning it over and holding it in my my mind’s eye, never thinking to look up what tree it came from. And one day, just about a month after I moved into my residence hall and begun classes, I made a serendipitous turn and came across an entire row of ginkgo trees. I was wonderstruck.
I’ve been seeing a lot of ginkgo trees lately; some I seek out whenever I need a quick boost of comfort, and some I discover entirely by chance. On a Thursday not too long ago, I encountered three (!!!) ginkgo trees I’d never seen before. One adorned with red lanterns, across the street from the bus stop I’d wait at after a shift at my last joe job; one in front of an apartment building not far from where my queer choir rehearses; and one around the corner from a cute cafe I popped into for a little snack just off Main street.
Each time I lay eyes on one, it feels like the first time I saw that row of ginkgo trees all over again: waves of giddy astonishment and blissful hope, in turns.
i’d give you my eyes so you can see what i do
I was about to be juuuuust on time to an appointment when I saw this flower for the first time. It was the biggest, orangiest flower I’d ever seen. I involuntarily let out a very loud WHOA! and probably looked very silly to the people passing me by, but I don’t mind looking silly when I’m in the pursuit of colours. It felt deliciously fateful, since I’d just come from picking out a pair of juicy, candylike orange glasses for myself.
After a google search, it turns out this flower is a kind of poppy known as the Prince of Orange — what a name!
Each bloom is easily bigger than my cupped palms (admittedly, I have small hands) and definitely bigger than my favourite yellow bowl-mug (the best thing to eat soup out of). Each petal, delicately crinkled, looks like it’s saturated with Crush orange soda. I wound up being late, with a camera roll and wandering eyes brimming with orange.
Earlier this month, I was at a friend’s house for the first time, and discovered poems on her walls, affixed with yellow washi tape. Since then, whenever I lose track of time distracted by the beauty around me, I think of this poem:
and i came out new, all because of you
Upon realizing my love/passion/obsession with colours, a friend recommended I listen to this Radiolab episode (which you should all listen to right now). It touches on a lot of interesting bits of research and dialogues about colour and colour perception, but the thing that stuck with me the most was how differently every living creature — humans, dogs, sparrows, butterflies — see and experience colour. It was something I logically always knew, but the way they illustrated each difference in the episode really struck a chord with me emotionally.
Butterflies can see ultraviolet light, and can even see colours we can’t even begin to comprehend and don’t even have names for. During my first time listening to the episode, I wondered what it must be like to experience something beautiful and have no words to describe it.
Butterflies, one of my favourite Kacey Musgraves songs, is anchored by the refrain, you give me butterflies, which up until this exact moment of me writing this letter, I’ve continuously misheard as you give me butterfly eyes.
After quite some time daydreaming of all the hues a butterfly bears witness to everyday, the line you give me butterfly eyes brings to my heart the feeling of being surrounded with love so abundant it opens my eyes to new colours that saturate new feelings and new emotions. A butterfly doesn’t think about finding the words; a butterfly doesn’t attempt to logically break down and analyze each feeling it feels and each experience it experiences. You give me butterfly eyes compels me to let myself luxuriate in each new colour of each new moment, instead of getting stuck in my tendency to overthink and overanalyze.
I don’t think I’ll ever sing it any other way.