Everyone has stories that are part of their personal lore. They become our own legends, retold by family and friends. They define the way we see ourselves and make up part of who we are.
When I was three, my favorite color was lavender. Everyone who loves me loves this story. My late grandmother, my aunts, my mother, and now even my little son, know my favorite color has always been lavender.
Not purple.
It’s a story that I remember more than the moment itself. I do remember the lavender touches in my little-girl world. My comforter was lavender. My walls were white and my mother sponge-painted a pattern of lavender on them. One of my aunts made me a carousel horse lamp with a lavender shade and lavender roses painted on the ceramic. I had a favorite lavender dress with a round, lace collar.
I would tie lavender ribbons on my doll’s hair and my own – to hang in matching braids.
But, I left that color behind somewhere. For some time, lavender just dropped out of my life.
It was probably a cultural color shift. The color is hard to come by when it’s not in vogue. There was black and gray and white and red. There were denim blues and that particular shade of sage green.
Then, in my late twenties, I impulsively coated lavender dye onto my bleach-blond hair. I felt reborn.
Lavender trickled back into my wardrobe – back into the little things around my life.
As I write this, I’m in the middle of planning and working on my office makeover. I don’t know if you can even call it a makeover because I never decorated it. I’ve been strategically accumulating a modge-podge of furniture, organizational bins, lights, and all those things that make an office.
I’ve given myself permission to paint the room lavender. I may regret it. It may feel garish after some time. But, I’ll enjoy it for a while.
