Gene Kelly danced in the rain. Enjoyed it, yes; celebrated the finding of love in it, yes. But he danced despite the rain, not because of it.

For some of us, we write to the virtue of grey.

Writing in rain. How much easier it is for some of us to write under grey skies than sunny ones. That lowered sky holds our thoughts close-in; keeps our words nearer to us than if we were to think them under a canopy of infinite blue.

The grey sky contains us; it is much more like the roof we see on the inside of our heads. Grey is the color of the melancholy infused into our DNA. The part of us that sighs even as it smiles.

Which raises another question: Do we write from a place of melancholy or joy?

We write from an ecstatic place, sometimes. And, sometimes, from deep sorrow. We write hope and fear and loneliness and gratitude. We exorcise nothing—we merely share it. Often, we magnify it in the remembering. We dance in rain, despite ourselves.

Ah, but grey.

Grey flattens contrast. Grey lays gauze over the vision that pops. Grey is a soft foundation. A lack of challenge. A fill-in-the-blanks. Grey does not insist that we be happy. Grey-with-rain gives us permission to sit in a chair and ruminate.

Grey is not an extreme. In the seesaw between joy and  sorrow, grey balances us somewhere in between. And that is the perfect place from which to reach for everything.

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