If Orange Could Speak

Taut strands of warp swallow soft linen fibers of weft as the shuttle makes its way through the loom to create me. Hands, softened by lanolin from sheep’s wool over the years, remove me from the wooden frame. I’m boiled in a mixture of roots and tubers, plants, bark, leaves, flowers, and fruits, in particular saffron and turmeric, and then beaten against rocks to ensure my hue. It is a labor of love and humility. I trek the far reaches of the Himalayas on the body of a holy man who treads along the mountainside with only a walking stick and a bowl for sustenance. My substance absorbs the vibrations of Sanskrit chants. I bathe in frigid, pristine water and sit cross-legged on top of a mountain. Although cold, crisp air surrounds me, inwardly, I’m warm. I behold beauty in every direction.

The pendulum swings to a different scene. Industrial looms run by the rough hands of disgruntled workers form me. I’m no longer holy, but utilitarian, serving a single purpose. My stiff fibers, no longer mellow but brassy, chafe rough tattooed skin. The sweaty stench of the man I clothe permeates my polyester-cotton blend, along with self-loathing and anger. I sense the condemnation and mockery from the figure pushing the metal rod against my backside as it clangs against the metal cuffs. Hollywood tries to add romance to my situation and calls me the new black. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

In a small village, I am once again handled with care. I am the earth, a rich vein of clay. I am formed into different shapes and baked in the sun. Terracotta, my name, flows on the tongue. I'm both high and low, rolling like waves atop a house, and flat squares beneath feet. Although trodden upon, I don’t mind, except for possibly spiked heels. Bare feet are my favorite. But also, I love bare hands. On a wheel, I am spun into shape, then placed one by one on terracotta tiles. I decorate a home, the abode of an artist, a potter. He kicks a foot and spins me, molding me into shape with smooth, firm hands. The motion makes me ecstatic. For a moment, I am a whirling dervish. In the end, I’m a beautiful pot, admired by many. I am passed down through generations. An oblivious passerby carelessly knocks me to the floor. I crash on the beautiful Saltillo tile of a Mexican restaurant. What is that I hear? It’s my song. A mariachi band is playing. All my colorful cousins stand playfully against the stucco plaster. I am happy. In my elation, I drift back to another time.

I purr and strut along a cobblestone street, satisfied and smug after a victory over a devious mouse, a worthy prey. I stop to lick my tabby fur in celebration and am caught off guard. A man with ginger hair and a matching beard scoops me up and caresses me, the stench of linseed oil strong on his bony hands. He looks up at the moon and down at my fur, an ah-ha moment for him. In haste, he carries me back to his studio, giving me a place of honor on a cushion in the corner. The vertical eyes of the creature I coat peruse the room. Canvases explode with me, a mixture of red and yellow ochres, the complement to swirling blue skies. I watch as he skillfully captures my essence on the stretched, tightly woven linen, translating it to the rising moon and hayfields below. He signs his name, Vincent. I think—superb. This man understands me. The hunting prowess of this waif of a body I cover takes a backseat. I am humbled in his presence and meow in delight.

For a brief time, I am followed by the paparazzi. Yet, I evoke reverence and respect. Ahs and oohs follow the snaps of Canons, Nikons, and Hasselblads. I am sublime. They call me Autumn. I am earthy and fragrant, peering out of pots on porches. It is the season. I am everywhere—chrysanthemums, pumpkins, jack-o’-lanterns. The air grows more frigid. I fade and fall, as all things do.

I am transformed. You can find me crackling and popping inside an open hearth. I look to see a family playing a board game and drinking hot chocolate. Outside, it is snowing. In another instance, I look out, taking in the hungry gaze of lovers, and blush, if that is indeed possible for me. In the distance, my flames blaze against the backdrop of stars, comforting a lone hiker on the Appalachian Trail.

I am a color chart in a hardware store, a smear of paint across the top of a can. A woman eyes my different tints and shades, choosing two: apricot and salmon. To the clerk, she says, “I will take these.” The clerk walks away and then comes back and says, almost in shock, “You said these were for the outside of a house?”

“Yes, I did,” the woman, clearly of the hippie era, replies. This woman is bold. Once again, I am reminded of the painter a century ago.

My progeny of tints and shades is many—apricot, peach, amber, burnt sienna, vermilion, salmon, tangerine, pumpkin…the list goes on. A child simply calls me orange, the color of juice, the fruit, or a carrot. Bugs Bunny likes carrots. “What’s up, Doc?”

I am a pumpkin pie with whipped cream. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I am a scary jack-o’-lantern. I am both yin and yang. I am the ten thousand straws of the Tao.

At my core, I am the sacral chakra, second up the ladder, between the red root chakra and the yellow solar plexus chakra. I am both sensual and sexual. When I’m balanced, I give grace to movement and pleasure without guilt. I am positive and spontaneous, acting on pure gut or instinct. I give freely and inspire. I won’t steer you wrong, except in the kitchen. I am a stimulant and will definitely excite your appetite.

I have dropped all, renounced my old ways. I have cast aside my childish manners to mature. I am a new beginning.