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It's early Sunday morning, and I'm walking up steep rain soaked cobblestones in San Miguel de Allende. The air is cool and tight, and the sun slices across houses, igniting their random, riotous colors. My step actually lightens to see a bold hit of curry seasoning up a small house and next to it, a faded pomegranate red, then mint . . . rhubarb pink . . . cantaloupe. Color is delicious, I think, as I actually hunger for these intensities. I am passing fuchsia bougainvillea spilling from rooftops while voices in song spill from open church doors . . . I am fed by both. 

I've come for a wedding of friends, where we huddled under a cathedral tent in pouring rain, paraded up a hill under umbrellas, and whirled through the night dancing in a bull ring. Enchanting, all. But at dinner, another wedding guest from the states puzzled over why I would stay for another two days to take a quiet break here. What in the world will you DO??  

I will eat color all day long. I will feast on white egrets roosting high against the azul sky, hummingbirds digging into the pink lantana. I will catch a bright green cab over cobblestones, will watch Mexican soccer stars in the same green shirts stomp their World Cup competition. I will search out an Otami embroiderer who spent four months stitching a golden tablecloth I decide I must bring home. I will listen to the blue tiled fountain in the quiet courtyard, hear colorful bells erupt in Angelus at noon, circle the gardens of pale pink lillies blooming in afternoon light.

Texture speaks to our bodies, our sense of touch. Design speaks to our minds - the patterns and meanings they evoke. But color speaks straight to the heart. Bottomless indigo stills me with its deep sorrows. Gold will warm me instantly, with a certain happiness. Bold flashes of blazing orange plays on me like a percussion band until my heart opens to that pure energy.  

Color is a visceral language; I love to hear it spoken boldly. It's visual poetry, and with our choices of color in life, we reveal our inner landscape. Make it vivid and clear, though complex, I want to say. Saturated with life in all of its fullness, its patina and age and beauty. This is the lesson of Mexico.

Today, still in this world of magic realism, I am perched under an covered patio while again a fierce rain comes down. The sky is neutral, and colors are softened, a chill breathes over me. It makes me even more aware of the kumquats peaking out across the garden, drinking in their nourishment, singing their song of brightness, undetered. Making me contemplate my true colors and if they, too, shine in the rain;  if they sing . . . even on a faded, stormy day. 

All the Best,

Susan Hull Walker