Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its

"Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises." So spoke Pedro Calderón de la Barca, the great Spanish poet and playwright of the seventeenth century. His words are not merely about hue or pigment, but about the essence of life itself. For in green is contained the whisper of beginnings, the triumph of renewal, and the promise of hope. When the ancients looked upon the fields after winter’s passing, they did not merely see grass or leaf—they saw the world itself reborn, clothed in the garment of green, the eternal sign that death yields and life returns.

The ancients understood that color was never just color. To them, green was not simply an adornment of the earth, but the very sign of its loveliness. From it arose the beauty of meadows, the grace of trees, the serenity of moss, the flourishing of grain. It was the sign of abundance, of rivers flowing, of the earth’s unending bounty. When Calderón declared it the “prime color of the world,” he spoke as one who had looked deeply into nature’s heart and found there a truth: that all things of beauty spring first from life, and life itself reveals its cloak most radiantly in green.

Let us recall the story of Mahatma Gandhi in India, who walked among the villages barefoot, clothed in simplicity, yet radiant in spirit. He often spoke of the bond between man and the land, of the spinning wheel and the soil. When he gazed upon the green fields of wheat and cotton, he saw not only crops, but the very soul of a people sustained by earth’s generosity. In those fields lay the strength to resist oppression, the patience to endure hardship, and the quiet beauty of survival. The loveliness of green was not only in its visual delight, but in its power to nourish freedom and awaken dignity.

But beware, for Calderón’s words are also a warning. If green is the source of loveliness, then to wound it is to wound the world itself. When forests fall to fire and axe, when rivers run dry, when meadows wither into dust, loveliness fades, and with it, the spirit of humankind. The ancients would tremble at the sight of barren hills, for they knew: when the prime color of the world is dimmed, the balance of life itself falters. To cherish green is not only an act of admiration, but of survival, of reverence for the source of all that breathes.

And yet, green also teaches resilience. After fire, the sprout. After winter, the thaw. After despair, the promise of dawn. The soul of man is much the same: though it may pass through storms of sorrow, it carries within it the seed of renewal. Just as the grass returns after being trampled, so too can the human heart rise again after being broken. The loveliness that Calderón speaks of is not only in nature’s form but in the soul’s power to renew itself.

Therefore, the teaching is this: do not neglect the green in your life. Seek it not only in fields and forests, but in your spirit. Let it remind you to renew yourself when you feel weary, to rise again when you are struck down. Plant a tree, tend a garden, or simply walk where the leaves dance in the wind. Surround yourself with the prime color, and it will lend you its strength. In moments of despair, look upon the hills, the valleys, the smallest blade of grass—and let its loveliness remind you that life, no matter how wounded, will rise again.

So, pass this wisdom on to future generations: that to love the green is to love life, to protect it is to guard the very loveliness of the world, and to live by it is to be renewed, season after season, like the eternal earth. And when your children ask you why the fields are sacred, you may tell them: “Because within them lies the prime color of the world, and from it, all loveliness arises.”