There is no shortage of twinkle lights in the city these days. They frame doorways and dangle in great vines on the sides of buildings; they coil themselves in pine wreathes on windows and doors. White is de rigueur when it comes to striking the perfect “all-is-merry-bright-and-20%-off” holiday tone. White is delicate and tasteful; white is tiny, demure pinpricks of light. White lights are the good girls of the season.
White lights twine most of the trees in Boston Common. And then there was her, a renegade in red.
Red is borderline gauche.
Red is daring, bold.
Red refuses to blend.
Red says “attention must be paid!” After all, it wasn’t a soothing, robin’s egg blue that claimed the blazing “A” on Hester’s scandalous, puritan wrack. Red does not take any mess, believe it.
I get why we crave those white lights–illuminating the darkness, literally and figuratively–but I appreciate this disruption to the sedate motif of hope and purity. Because:
What good is seeing if we’re not awake?
What good is hope without the passion to act?
What good is piety without the wisdom that comes from being fully alive in the world?
I’ll take my season dressed in white, but I’ll take my life tangled up in red.