I love heavy fog.
I have always loved the magic of a mist so thick that an ordinary landscape becomes somehow mythical revealing itself slowly over miles of highway. But recently I have entered a fog of mental confusion that is terrifying rather than exhilarating. What lays hidden behind the next curve? I do not know. What awaits me tomorrow, next week, next month? I have not a clue. There is no sense of orientation where the air is clouded and landmarks that once provided security have been lost, enveloped.
When I was four I once declared to my mom that we were about to pass through a fallen cloud as we made our way up Interstate-5. I didn’t yet know of the mechanics of air and water that create mist and fog. I only knew the beautiful pillow fluff that came from a world of dreams, and home perhaps, to unicorns. Self contained, resting as if patiently waiting our arrival, the cloud-fog hovered above the gravel too light to be weighted down by earthly troubles. I was enchanted. So began my love affair with what my mom told me was actually “fog.” Despite the ugly sounding name, fog was what I wished for on misty fall mornings and achingly cold winter days. Please, I prayed, as I prepared for school, let there be fog today. I was hoping, with each fog-filled morning, for a day of magic.
As an adult, though, the imperceivable future before me frightens and haunts. What could become of me? I pray fervently, please let me see the way today.
But what of the magic of the mist? What of the wonderment of seeing something with beginner’s eyes? What if, instead of the fog of confusion I choose it to be instead the deliverance of dreams from the heavens to the earth. Having taken on the weight of reality, perhaps my hopes and wishes have become something I can reach out and touch. We shall see…
PS More on living out the confusions of life by Sarah Wilson.