Golden

There have been occasions in the past when, surrounded by a group of people whom I know fairly well, I have found myself envisaging each of them as particular colors, as if the very essence of their souls or selves could be distilled into character-revealing, unadulterated hues -- visible manifestations -- and examined in transparent flasks. My visualizations go something as follows: his color would be a deep shade of eggplant, full of depth and complexity, a bit hard to penetrate with the eye...kind of like looking through a wine bottle in an underlit room. His color is rich and robust, like his conversation and silence and emotion and wisdom. Her color is the green of split-pea soup -- it is always difficult for one to decide whether it is enjoyable and savory or not. In her color is something a bit disagreeable and unstable, yet fascinating... And so on, with quite a bit more detail and nuance. 

Usually, I would eventually come to wonder what my “color” would be. What would it say about me to my examiner? 

This all might sound quite strange and foolish, but I actually find it a helpful exercise. 

Because I know exactly what color I would want to be, but am simultaneously aware that if I were reduced to a shade reflective of my true self, there would be something contaminated about that color, something corrupted and turbid. 

Many times in my life I have driven past healthy introspection and humility right down into a valley of self-loathing, a place that also happens to be populated by pride and lies. On my own, I try to fix the damages, make changes to the surface and the interior. When that doesn’t work, I try to carry the burden of my car-wreck back out of the ravine -- but that, too, proves unsuccessful. 

Until I allow someone to help me carry it.

I find myself increasingly thankful for those people who tell me, in honest and excruciating love, the things I know to be true but am not courageous enough to admit to myself, or admit to God.

It can be unpleasant to see your own color. 

But there is great joy in knowing that you really are loved, loved so much by someone that they will drag the ickiest part of your soul kicking and screaming out of the dark and into a blinding light. This is in no way pleasant until the exposure is over (which, perhaps, it never really is), and you find yourself luminous again. Less...icky. 

I have found life-giving freedom in a truth: the truth that though I cannot purify myself by my own willpower or self-disparagement, there is someone who can radically refine me, develop me into a radiant soul reflective of that someone much brighter, much purer -- someone truly and forever terrifyingly lovely to behold.