Blue. It’s one of those things we think we know a lot about. It’s the color of the sky when the sun is out, of your lips when it gets cold, and of blue moon ice cream. Most people think of it as just something that you see, but to me it’s a feeling, incapable of being described in a single sentence, photograph, or moment. Sometimes, you need a collection of memories to grasp it.
Blue is my sunny disposition during my last weeks at home.
It’s the first glimpse of summer on the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Carolina.
Or it’s the hazy morning walk up the sand dunes in northern Michigan.
Blue is the calm before the storm.
It’s the feeling of simultaneous weightlessness and fear while sailing on the white caps of Torch Lake.
Blue is being bleary eyed, waking up too early to fish on Little Pond in Maine.
It’s clean, pristine, and uncluttered water at the North Carolina Museum.
It’s serenity and peace.
Blue is the satisfaction of the perfect shot and the light at the end of the tunnel.