STREAKS OF ORANGE, FLECKS OF GOLD
BY TOM DERR
It came out of the womb, wet and wrinkled, crawling along the ground. At first it tasted so bad. But then I found greens, my eyes opened to an interesting world. Colors majesty — sweet purples, bright yellows, oranges to send a fire to my soul. I loved being among them, these colorful strange beauties.
Others said I should just stick to our kind, the pretty pale blues of the males. But my mind emerged, splurged, excited by the possibilities of the marigold and rose. I just could not stay in my place, it seemed so stolid, such a waste. I wanted to explore, sprout wings, fly off far, far from the shore. I noticed my old brethren there, massed in their fragile beauty … between the lake and the shore. Fields of pale blue wings pulsing and beating in unison; the community I hungered for. But then, I saw the monarch fluttering by and I wanted to follow it and find more.
Was I born to conform, like all the others, or could there be something else out there, something bigger than just the flock to sit in?
I felt sleepy. Was I thinking too much? Did anyone else think enough? Enough, enough of all this conformity bound to the shore. I found another I could touch and feel, and she said, “You are meant to be fashioned to a plan … don’t try to be any more.”
I found a nice stem where I could get a view. So sleepy was I, that I wove a cocoon to snuggle into, to ponder the mysteries of creation and more. I slept oh so long, not time to count it go by. And as I slept, I had visions of colors — thousands in the sky — but a mix of orange, peach, pale green and deep blue … such beauty to my eye.
And then I awoke, feeling different. I stretched and pushed; my comfortable cozy home seemed too restraining. I swear, I knew now was the time to fly!
I pushed out, I broke out, and yo — wings had I! And they were not just pale blue, like my brethren nearby. I had streaks of orange, flecks of gold, missed through pale blue — my dreams come to life. And thus, I was made, unite to all, like my brethren … but more. And I sang to the sky, to the sun, to the eye of the dreamer of a creation made not to conform … But to love the full palette of creator’s crayons, unique in the painting of me.
I spread my wings, let my imagination soar, beat my wings and started to fly. I saw all my creation spread out before me — the lake and the shore — my brethren flocking in pale blues, waves of joy and breathing, being together, feeling community pulling together. Yet, I wanted to continue to soar higher and higher, where I could see the sweet yellows and golds, rosy reds, passioned purples, and I realized, I am not like the other guy.
Was this a mistake of God? Or was I meant to be me?
The man came with his nets and his jars, eyes attuned to pick out the diverse, “Oh look, all these beautiful pale blues ones by the shore!” His companion wailed, “Oh yes, I have those. But look, what is this?!! I see one unique! It doesn’t fit with all the rest. It isa great of nature, streaks of orange, flecks of gold. I want to catch it, stake it, and show it on my mounting board. And with luck there will be no more. I will be famous for trapping the beautiful and unique, an outlier … the freak. I hope is oh, so rare. I hope there are no more.”
I awake from my slumber, my wings spread, staked and stored in a prison of grey and steel. I cannot get out; happy I am sure they be. Those who want a trophy; the fame of capture, not allowing the strange to be free. I lie on a board, labelled, and spread. My hands stretched out in front of me with nails stuck through them — palms bleeding in agony. Oh lord, oh lord is this what you had in mind, just because I was free? Free to imagine a world that could love, could accept, could forgive — not reject … could hold diversity?”
God makes no mistakes. You were meant to be you. Others should help so we can learn how to live without harming, to teach the love of the heart, and way it was meant to be. Unique and common, plain and diverse, we can get along as the Lord has meant it to be. You are you, one-of-a-kind, no matter how you strive to blend in. Black or white, red or gold, even the common can learn how to be free. Free to understand, free to love, free to forgive … diversity. | TD