I’m wrapping myself up in indigo these days. Faded jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts feel like a big bear hug from an old friend. In the clutch of winter, indigo can seem as elusive as a shadow thrown from the moon.
Wearing indigo is a quiet rebellion of all that’s gray and corporate. It’s an honest day’s work spent knee-deep digging in dirt or throwing soil with a shovel.
It’s the color of the sea at sundown. It’s the sky minutes before midnight. It’s the batik I’ll buy one day in Bali. It’s the color of heroism. Patriotism. Valor. Vacation! It’s the taste of berries eaten with your fingers. It’s the stain they leave behind. It’s the solemn shade beneath a giant tree.
It’s a gentler coat of navy. A truer blue. A vintage hue with violet tendencies and a low slung sound. The color of relaxation. A Caribbean daydream. A tie-dyed summer. The shade of time gone by.
It’s the glow in my mood ring. It’s my winter state of mind.