Let’s get something straight right off the top. Indigo isn’t a color – and if you have to ask the question that’s nibbling at your mind, you’ll never understand.
Indigo isn’t a snowflake—white. White is blind to color, erasing perceptions of depth, shades, and outlines that give definition to individuality, causing you to stumble over obstacles you cannot know are underfoot.
Neither is it sympathy, understanding, nor any other voluntary act. It’s the unconscious absorption of another’s colors – crying their tears, shrieking their cries for help, bearing their terror, anguish, emptiness, despair, loneliness, horror, trepidation, hopelessness, helplessness, all forms of darkness as if each emotion were your own.
It’s the choke in a throat, the pinch in a heart, which originates with another’s wounds.
It’s finding yourself embedded under the thin skin of someone who can’t “just get over it.”
It’s drowning in waves of helplessness when good people do bad things out of willful ignorance.
It’s feeling things too deeply when there’s no way to get over to the shallow end.
Indigo is the terror in a child’s eyes when strangers rip her from her parents’ arms. There’s no point labeling the color of her pupils. Brown or blue, the whites of her eyes are webbed with red.
It’s the anguished memory of a child’s tiny fingers probing his parents’ lips, a joy forever lost to the black hole of unjust law and order.
It’s the binding pang of a stomach filled with emptiness and roiling with despair.
It’s hopelessness when the lust for power trumps the inalienable rights of the “least of these.”
It’s anger over the dehumanization of those who are different.
It’s the waning essence – the aspirating self—leaching out as passersby see only the concrete into which margins become lost.
It’s an abyss that opens in one’s soul as the gaping throat of war gulps down every parent, widow, orphan child, brother, sister, closest friend whose warrior comes home maimed, dead, or not at all. From such loss, there is no relief. The best that one can hope is that seventy or a hundred years from now, the cancer that invaded our body politic will not return and make us fight again for that which should never be open for debate. Even so, we never heal from these wounds; we only cauterize the flow of grief.
Indigo is a condition we don’t choose, it chooses us. It’s the bittersweet grace of god clawing at our hearts as we wrestle with the debilitating shame of man’s inhumanity toward man.
DL Fowler is a creative writing teacher and coach. He is also the award winning author of Ripples – a novel of suspense, Lincoln Raw – a biographical novel, Lincoln’s Diary – a novel of suspense, and Transform Your Fiction. DL Fowler gets inside people’s heads and invites readers along for the ride. He spent his childhood in northwest Georgia and lived his teenage years in in the shadow of Redland’s California’s Lincoln Shrine. During summers, while working as a camp counselor, he backpacked through the San Gorgonio Wilderness. After graduating from University of Southern California with a BA in Humanities, he earned an MBA from California State University – San Bernardino, and pursued a career in finance. He now lives in Gig Harbor, WA and devotes his time writing stories that touch the hearts and souls of readers.