Gurus - The Journey Magazine

Facing Pink: Unexpected
Lessons From My Mother
By Judith Eugene
Pa g e 16
Day One
I am painting a room pink. Pink.
Pink. Anyone who knows me knows
that I am not a “pink person.” The
rest of my house is terra cotta, moss,
rust, mocha … serious, sensible colors.
Why pink? Pink was the color of
my mother’s apartment. My mother
died six months ago. I am painting
the room where I will display her
things. I am painstakingly recreating
every detail – perhaps in the hope
it will bring her back. Every detail.
Even the pink.
Pink. Silly pink. What in the world
is really pink anyway? Bazooka
bubble gum? Pepto Bismol? Barbie’s
camper? Pink is the color of silly
fantasy things: Pegasus wings, Cupid
cheeks, a heart scribbled by a child.
This color can’t possibly expect me
to take it seriously.
As I open the can and dip in my
brush, I feel an uneasiness. What is it
about this color that bothers me? It is
too carefree. It is too eternally happy.
It has no meaning, no substance. As I
put my brush to the wall I am almost
resentful. I decide I can’t face pink
today and put the brush away.
Day Two
I reopen the can. I have been
thinking about pink all day. It has
me perplexed. I need to figure it out.
Anyway, painting is meditative for
me. I am a good painter because of
my parents. My father was a painter
and taught me how to hold a brush.
My mother was a Montessori teacher
and taught me to be thoughtful and
deliberate in my actions. I love to
work with my hands. I don’t need
blue tape.
My mother had cancer but she
didn’t die from it. One day her heart
just stopped. The truth is, the angels
just couldn’t stand being away
from her any longer, and they came
and scooped her up. She had pink
pajamas and pink slippers. She had
a sparkly pink headband that she
wore around her bald head. What
was it about pink that made her so
happy? I needed to know. I needed to
understand. I started to paint.
Day Three
I am starting to figure out pink.
Pink doesn’t care. It doesn’t answer
to anyone. It is what it is. How can it
be so daring? Because it is what it is,
out of love. Pink doesn’t hurt anyone.
Pink smiles and gives, smiles and
gives. Pink purposely ignores politics
and war. Pink doesn’t allow fear
inside its cheerful envelope.
Pink knows there are problems
in the world, but lets someone
else worry about them. Pink
prefers to laugh rather than feel
sorry for itself. Pink shines.
As my hand sweeps rhythmically
across the wall I am
reminded of my mother rocking
me on the porch swing when it
rained. I love rain because of
my mother. I remember how
giving she was. I remember how
As I open the
can and dip in my
brush, I feel an uneasiness.
What is
it about this color
that bothers me?
It is too carefree.
It is too eternally
happy. It has no
meaning, no
substance.
steadfastly positive and cheerful she was, so that my siblings and I would
never worry. Pink is that way. It provides a respite for people who need one,
from whatever they need it from. Pink doesn’t judge. Like the Pied Piper, it
sings, dances and says “Follow me!” to anyone who will listen. Pink is happy.
I am almost finished painting.
Day Four
I’ll miss pink. I’ll miss our conversations, our debates. I’ll miss the way
it challenges me, even though I’d never admit it out loud. I can’t believe I
have a pink room. Then again, I can. My mother taught me to keep an open
mind, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, to remember that you can
learn something from everyone – even pink. Pink has taught me to let go,
laughing.
Pink is the color of happiness, of personal freedom. Pink is the unapologetic
color of love. My mother’s color. And yes, pink is the color of a heart
scribbled by a child … a child whose soul is still open, before learning to censor
Ja n u a r y • Fe b r u a r y 2012
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