The Palette

A good friend just gave me an exercise his therapist had given him as an instant tool to draw upon during anxiety attacks.

Think of three colors you really like.

Got them?

Now think of a word that you associate with each color. For example, you might think of a deep chocolate brown and think "comforting." Or a sage green and say "soothing."

Got your words? Good.

When you are feeling stressed or anxious, pull the colors out of your mind's pocket, think of them one by one, and think of the word you associate with each color.

Simple, no?

My friend related this technique during a brief phone call, and I had just enough time to ask if I could pick different colors for different scenarios. The answer came back, "well, I guess so," which I took to mean "why not?"

"Why not?" indeed.

I got to test the workability of this technique this evening. It is Friday night of Concert Week, which means dress rehearsal. I ended up volunteering to run an errand for the Symphony before many musicians arrived and my mood was, well, let's just say it was less than positive. So as I sat at an impossibly long stoplight, I thought of the colors I had named to my friend an hour ago and pulled up the words that went with them.

Darn if it didn't work. At least enough that my irritability level dropped several notches.

It worked enough that when I got back to the rehearsal, I turned it over in my mind, thought through my color choices, and came up with two palettes.

One is my de-stressing palette: blue, deep purple, silver gray.

          Blue (a nice, solid but not too dark blue): calming
          Deep purple: restoring
          Silver gray: tranquil

The other is my pick-me-palette: primary yellow, turquoise blue, and brilliant white.

          Primary yellow: upbeat
          Turquoise blue: strong
          Brilliant white: uplifted

I am writing these words as the musicians come on stage and start to warm up. My mood has flattened out from earlier but not yet risen. I have another errand to run yet this evening so we don't have to run it at 10:45 after rehearsal. There is a letter I want to write. I am just beginning the newly published final volume of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's diaries and letters, and it is just heartbreaking. (Yes, I will be writing about it when I finish.)

I am not sure as I sit here that I need my de-stressing palette.  I needed that earlier when my irritation level was high and threatening to hit flashpoint. Those embers are cold now. Maybe I need my pick-me-up palette. I could use feeling strong and uplifted right now. I need to feel upbeat.

Primary yellow: upbeat
Turquoise blue: strong
Brilliant white: uplifted

Turquoise blue.

Postscript
I wrote the above post before running the errand, dodging raindrops, and getting back to rehearsal to find the orchestra deep into the Debussy. While I drove, I though of turquoise for strength, primary yellow for being upbeat, and brilliant white for feeling uplifted.

As I sit here, watching Jaime and the musicians do what they do so well, and feel the music swell to the ceiling, i open my hands and let the colors seep through my fingers.

Primary yellow.

Turquoise blue.

Brilliant white.

Over the Rainbow

Like so many others, I keep a mental list of my favorite movies. "Hoosiers" is on that list. So is "Singing in the Rain" and "The King's Speech." "Field of Dreams" is on that list too, as is "What Dreams May Come." But my all time, absolutely favorite movie - the one that I will watch at any opportunity - is "The Wizard of Oz."

Yep, 1939, Judy Garland, Ray Bolger, Margaret Hamilton, the Munchkins, Oz, the flying monkeys, the whole nine yards. "The Wizard of Oz" is always number one on any list of mine. I probably have seen it at least once for every year of my life (55) and probably another dozen to two dozen times beyond that, so maybe I've seen it 75-80 times.

Friday night Warren and I went down to the Ohio Theatre for the start of the summer movie series and watched "The Wizard of Oz" on the big screen. (Be still my heart. While the movie suits me in any format, it really pops when seen on a big screen.)

We were running a bit late getting out of town. As we debated grabbing supper on the fly, I announced, as calmly as I could in light of the ticking clock, that I didn't want to be late for the movie as I had to (had to) see Dorothy sing "Over the Rainbow." If I missed that scene, which occurs very early in the movie, then we might as well bag the whole evening.

A short silence ensued while Warren pondered the enormity (or insanity) of what I had just said. After determining I was probably competent, he said "we'll make it work." And we did, ending up in our seats with ten or fifteen minutes to spare.

I wasn't disappointed. The movie is still magical. For the next two hours (with intermission), I was caught up in the story, enjoying the oh-so-familiar lines and scenes. I bounced in my seat when Glinda (My favorite! My favorite!) made her first appearance; I swallowed hard when Dorothy hugged the scarecrow and whispered "I think I'll miss you most of all." When the house thumped back down at the end of the movie and we were all back in Kansas, I sighed a little.

Emerging into the warm night in downtown Columbus, I felt a little disoriented. "I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." No, nor in Oz either.

If you asked me why I love "The Wizard of Oz" so much, I could probably spin off several reasons. I love the books, and while the movie is not faithful to the text (what do you mean, Louis Mayer, that Dorothy was just dreaming?), it's close enough that I am satisfied. Yip Harburg and Harold Arlen, the lyricist and composer of the songs? Love them. I love watching Judy Garland sing their signature work, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" (although it is heartbreaking watching it from the vantage point of now knowing how Garland's life would turn out). I love seeing Frank Morgan (the wizard) pop up in various roles, five in all. I even love the flying monkeys and the Wicked Witch of the West, the two components of the film that frighten most children. (I was fine with them when I was little, but that tornado haunted my dreams well into my thirties. Watching the twister scene the other night on the big screen, I found myself still tensing up as it came closer and closer to the farmhouse.)

I love the actors, I love the costumes, I love the sets. I'd love to be Glinda, no matter which character the Facebook quiz said I was most like.

Let's face it: I love the film.

When I outfitted myself for my new job, I found a skirt at Goodwill that I call my Frida Kahlo/Wizard of Oz skirt. (Katrina, if you are reading this, you are probably rolling your eyes and wondering what on earth I look like.) The Oz reference came about because the skirt is so color splashed that it looks like what Dorothy must have seen when she first opened the door after the farmhouse landed in the Munchkin city.

And maybe that is what I love best about "The Wizard of Oz" - the wonder of Dorothy opening the door into Oz. There is something in that simple scene that has always resonated with me, no matter what my age. Friday night I could barely sit still, knowing that Dorothy was about to open the farmhouse door and step out into enchantment.

In the book, The Wizard Of Oz, Dorothy "gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw." In my very first blog post, I wrote about the magic of opening doors. This movie is where I first learned that to open the door is to set off on an adventure.

Big doors, little doors, real doors, dream doors: no matter what kind of door you may have, there is always that moment when your hand is on the knob and you are about to open it. May you always give cries of amazement at what is on the other side.