In my mid-twenties, I had a recurring dream. Night after night, I found myself running through an empty marketplace. It resembled the bustling souks of Marrakech, or at least the ones I'd seen on television. It was a place designed for crowds, conversation, and commerce, yet there wasn't another soul in sight.

What I remember most were the doors. Enormous, intricately designed doors in brilliant colors lined the market. Each night, I approached a different one. And each night, just as the door began to open, I woke up.

I never discovered what was on the other side.

The dreams continued for nearly a year before eventually disappearing. I remember the disappointment of waking, frustrated that once again I'd come so close to discovering what lay beyond those beautiful doors.

I haven't dreamed of that marketplace in years, but the colors have stayed with me. And somewhere along the way, as I wandered through unfamiliar streets, ancient ruins, and distant landscapes, I began collecting colors of my own.

The ancient marble of Athens glowed a warm, weathered gold in the afternoon sun. Not the polished, glittering kind of gold, but something softer, shaped by thousands of years of history.

Rain came and went as we explored the Acropolis. We playfully jumped from one part of the ruins to another, dodging puddles and passing showers. The unpredictable weather had given us an unexpected gift: remarkably few crowds. It felt almost like a dance with the light itself, as the golden-hour sun slipped between the clouds and illuminated the ancient columns of the Parthenon. For brief moments, the marble glowed, inviting us to imagine what this magnificent structure might have looked like in its heyday.

I found myself studying the cracks and imperfections in the marble, thinking about the thousands of years these stones had witnessed. Here stood the remnants of a civilization whose ideas helped shape Western philosophy, democracy, and government. The columns were weathered and worn, yet still standing.

Even now, I can picture that golden light slipping between the clouds and settling over the ancient stone.

Gray isn't usually a color I associate with beauty. But the rich, textured gray of an elephant's skin, thick and deeply wrinkled, is among the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

I was sitting in the front seat of our Toyota Land Cruiser on a safari drive when I found myself face-to-face with the matriarch of an elephant herd. She was barely four feet away. Close enough that I could have reached out and touched her.

I sat in complete silence, looking into her eyes. I saw intelligence, emotion, and protectiveness. There was something about her presence that made me feel as though she had invited me into her world, allowing me to share this brief moment with her.

It felt almost like a spell.

I was afraid to move, partly because I didn't want to startle her, but even more because I didn't want to break whatever connection existed between us. My eyes traced the deep creases of her skin, admiring her beauty. Every wrinkle seemed to speak of strength and endurance. In her, I saw something of the ruggedness of South Africa itself, a landscape shaped by harsh climates and the resilience of the life that inhabits it.

Eventually, she turned and walked away. The encounter lasted only a short time, but the feeling has never left me. Even now, remembering those few moments brings tears to my eyes. She walked away that day, but I will carry that moment of connection forever.

Guatemala refuses to be remembered in a single color. Brilliant reds, yellows, blues, greens, and oranges filled the streets of the villages surrounding Lake Atitlán. From the intricate patterns of traditional woven clothing to the brightly painted murals covering buildings and walls, Guatemala was life lived in color.

We explored the winding streets in open-air tuk-tuks, weaving in and out of traffic, passing street vendors, pedestrians, and seemingly endless murals. There was a rhythm to the streets. Not quite chaos, but not exactly order either. It was an adventure with every turn.

I practiced my Spanish with our drivers, learning about their families, the surrounding villages, and their favorite places to eat. Each tuk-tuk ride became a mini tour with its own guide, complete with local stories and restaurant recommendations. The warmth and cheerfulness of the people we encountered seemed to reflect the vibrant colors surrounding us.

One of my favorite memories was hiking to Mirador Kaqasiiwaan, an overlook above San Juan La Laguna. At the top, brilliantly painted murals depicting ancient Maya culture and traditions surrounded us. The colors were almost more than lifelike, bold and vivid against the natural beauty of Lake Atitlán and the volcanoes rising beyond it.

What struck me most was the way the murals and landscape worked together. Neither seemed out of place. Neither competed for attention. Both were breathtaking, the colorful expressions of human creativity existing in harmony with the extraordinary landscape.

The earthy tones of Ubud's temples seemed to reflect the peaceful rhythm of life surrounding them. Warm terracotta, muted browns, and weathered stone, with intricate carvings softened by time and the tropical climate. There was something grounding about it all.

Each morning, I sat on the balcony of our guesthouse, sipping tea and overlooking the lush green fields. The occasional bird called in the distance, and conversations drifted up from people walking along the street below. There was no urgency to the morning, no sense that I needed to be anywhere else. I was content simply to sit, sip my tea, and watch the day begin.

As I wandered through Ubud's streets, I passed ornate temple entrances and doorways adorned with small offerings of flowers and incense. The earthy tones of the stone contrasted with the delicate colors of the flowers, while the scent of incense lingered in the warm air. These small moments of beauty and devotion seemed to be part of the natural rhythm of everyday life.

No one seemed to be in a rush. And before long, neither was I.

If you could take the feeling of a yoga class and put it into a place, Ubud would be it. There was a serenity that seemed to settle over everything, from the ancient temples to the quiet mornings on my balcony. I felt grounded, present, and completely at ease.

A flash of brilliant red against the deep greens of the Costa Rican rainforest was enough to stop me in my tracks. Not a tropical flower or an exotic bird, but a tiny pajama frog hiding among the leaves.

We spent hours hiking through the rainforests around La Fortuna, searching for wildlife. On one of our hikes, we spotted our first pajama frog hanging in a tree just off the trail. We'd been looking for one for some time, and discovering it ourselves felt like finding a hidden treasure. Its brilliant red body stood out against the surrounding greenery, a tiny splash of color that seemed almost too vibrant to be real.

After that first discovery, something changed. Suddenly, we began spotting them everywhere. It was as though the rainforest had been keeping a secret, and now that we knew what to look for, it was willing to share. Each time I spotted that familiar flash of red, I couldn't help but let out a little giggle.

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a tendency to operate in what I call "race mode." What am I trying to win? No idea. But am I going to let anyone else win? Absolutely not.

Even when I'm hiking, I sometimes find myself moving faster than necessary, eager to see what's around the next bend. But those tiny red frogs had a way of slowing me down. I began moving more intentionally, scanning the leaves and branches, paying closer attention to the world immediately around me rather than rushing toward whatever might be ahead.

There was something wonderfully playful about searching for them. Each sighting felt like another small discovery, another reason to stop, smile, and appreciate the extraordinary little creatures sharing the rainforest with us.

Sometimes the greatest discoveries aren't waiting at the end of the trail. They're hanging in a tree just a few steps away, waiting for us to slow down long enough to notice them.

Sometimes a particular shade of gold takes me back to the Acropolis, where ancient marble glowed between passing rain showers. A textured gray brings me face-to-face with an elephant in South Africa. The vibrant colors of Guatemala return me to winding streets and conversations with strangers. Earthy browns carry me to quiet mornings in Ubud, while a flash of red makes me smile at the memory of tiny frogs in a Costa Rican rainforest.

I still don't know what was behind those enormous, colorful doors in my dreams. And I suppose I never will. But I like to imagine that somewhere behind them were places I hadn't yet visited, people I hadn't yet met, and moments I couldn't possibly have imagined.

I don't dream of those doors anymore. Now I have colors that take me back.