Imagine a world where grass was pink, the same light blush of a sunset on a salty summer evening. Would people eat it like cotton candy? Maybe children would grow up despising the pink of broccoli and kale, of hearing parents’ admonishments to “eat their pinks.” Or maybe people would be a little more romantic, more affectionate—love constantly in the air. Green would become disgracefully relegated to the color of recycling bins and Android text messages.
But this is all a hypothetical situation. Grass has no choice but to be green. It must be green. Plants contain chlorophyll, chlorophyll converts carbon dioxide and water into glucose through photosynthesis, photosynthesis energizes plants to build tissues and thrive. Chlorophyll absorbs all light except 560-520 nanometer wavelengths—green. Walking along a broken sidewalk, the presence of trampled yellowish-brown weeds underfoot means no photosynthesis, no chlorophyll, no life.
Plants are green because of their ability to be alive.
Green communicates to the world that science can explain the basis of human survival. Molecules infinitely smaller than the thinnest blade of grass are swimming, transporting, functioning, and repeating to bring about being. Look closely. Science works, and green is living proof.
There are seasons in life without green. In the dead of winter the grass is gone, the ground covered instead in a sheath of white. White can be pretty too, the radiant sunlight bouncing off the snow in pure brightness, no chlorophyll present to absorb it. Yet white singes the eyes and burns the heart. Trudging through snow in the absence of life, there is a feeling of perfect ruthlessness, no forgiveness offered, no promises made. White is bright, but it is not life.
Green is the color lovers wear on the third date. Maybe she wears olive pants, or he has on a mint sweatshirt. No longer sticking to the safe blacks-whites-browns and denim jeans, a little more comfortable in branching out, venturing a little further. He’s a little shy, so maybe he’ll hold her hand as they walk home that night. Green beckons, says, “Come, don’t be afraid.” The lovers reach out to each other, stretching, leaning, meeting. Green takes root in her heart and flourishes outwards, encompassing and enveloping her whole. To her, he is no longer a superficial Valentine, a fleeting interest of flamingo pink or fuchsia rose petals, but something steady and warm. She shivers, and he gives his jacket to her, a bundle of fabric as precious as the most brilliant emerald, wrapping her tighter than she would have ever thought possible. She halts as the swirling colors coalesce around them, small moments making life. The night is cold, but the feeling is warm. “Hey, wait up,” she calls as he turns and extends his hand.
But wait! There is a picture too terrifying to even imagine. Green is the color of jealousy after all, the envy of seeing him with a new girl on that same road. An image framed by an alarmingly vivid ring of jade. A deep color tinged with heartache, a light shade of anger, and a dash of hate. Let it be a warning: hold on tightly to that jacket—or that green will never be the same again. Look closely. You might see that green light across the shore.
In the end, maybe the worst happens: the snow falls, the leaves wither along with the heart, and beauty falls to destruction. When everything is dampened, when life feels smothered by a season of apathy and loss, when it all gets too overwhelmingly empty, what remains?
Green is the color of matcha, quietly sipped on a lonesome twilight afternoon. Alone? But Dad is right there. A drink from the continent he draws his roots from. A new start, a new place, a new life. Green is the promised land. It calls repeatedly, “Wait for me, wait for me.” A sprout breaking through the ice, ushering in a season of renewal. Even in the middle of the coldest winter, it is present. Christmas trees exist, after all.
Sole Magazine