Overnight, the Atlantic Ocean rolled out a silent blue gray mist. It hovered over coastal inlets, drifted through the trees behind my house before spilling onto my street. From my window I saw the world wrapped in puffy cotton balls and I was as excited as a child waking up to winter’s first snow. There is nothing more soothing or more mysterious than a walk in the fog. It is what I needed.
Stepping into the gauzy mist, I took in a lungful of dewy air. Swallowed up in quiet dream-clouds, I felt shielded from the sorrows, tragedies, and injustices of the world. Van Morrison depicted fog as illusion and confusion that hangs heavily over the world, menacingly and with foreboding. But despair is not in my DNA, and I will not succumb to it.
So, I continue my walk with the belief that something beautiful might be unveiled and also with the full knowledge that the mystery of life is still being revealed.
Mysteries in the Lifting
Comfort hugged me like a blanket. Cushioned by the mist, layers of thought were wrapping around me. Poet Carl Sandburg compared fog to little cat feet, sneaking in and sitting on its haunches. But I see dense fog as a velvet glove spreading and carrying secrets, hoping someone, like me, or you will wake up to its message. Like clouds, fog is a collection of tiny water droplets. Water, the source of life, is also the stuff of tears. This morning I am held in the soft palm of this dual apparition, searching for clarity.
Continuing, I saw the pond behind our houses coming into view. Untouched by the mist, it appeared clear and pristine. There under a canopy of gray, it brightly presented itself like the mystical Brigadoon, rising from its hundred-year sleep. Something inside of me stirred. More thoughts emerged. Am I also awakening from slumber? No answers came. Sometimes it is enough to wonder.
A family of ducks floated effortlessly on the pond’s glassy surface. I imagined myself floating downstream with them, drifting me away from all the risk-reward COVID decisions I will be making, all the pain, sadness, injustices, and human cruelties in our world. The complacency of the pond is a pleasant escape . . . but only momentary.
I found myself clinging to the story of Brigadoon, clear, bright and rising from the mist. Is it a metaphor for humankind? Do the generations advance day by day, year by year or does it take a hundred-year event, something once hidden and now visible, to awaken us from our slumber?
Life has purpose. All life has purpose. My life has purpose. I am here to heal and love, even when it is not easy and maybe especially when it is not easy. But I do not wander aimlessly in a fog of despair, under shrouds of uncertainty searching for lighted pathways. I was given a model, whose life here on earth showed me how to live, how to forgive and how to love.
This is my clarity in the morning fog. Tomorrow’s story starts today with me. With resolve. In rivulets of goodness for all humankind.
For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. (2 Timothy 1:7)
For another post on finding purpose, see the link below: