Foggy mornings are a quiet splendor that I'm just learning to appreciate. It's somehow warming to your spirit. At first, looking out the window, I want to hold the day close to myself, to share it only with my beloved over coffee in our kitchen*, smiling in quiet pleasure over the other's presence. Keeping the day to ourselves, quiet and happy.
*I'm single, and despite being a barista, I don't drink coffee
And then I get out in it, and oh, I want to climb mountains. Get lost in woods wreathed in mist, and then climb above these clouds to look down on them. Fog is like a blending of mystery and passion - there's a passion out in it somewhere, but veiled in mystery. That's it. And the woods call me out, from everything I'm doing. In class? The trees still stand, waiting. At work? There are paths no one's walked. Meeting with a superior? The river's laughing and talking secrets to itself. Rehearsal? Leaves strewn down a hill waiting to be crunched.
I'm very much a sunshine-spirit, or so I'm told. Love being in the sunlight. Drawn to it, need to be able to see it even if I can't be in it. My spirit dies a little in windowless classrooms. Love having it spill over my skin, the touch of light can be the warmest, gentlest caress. But I've also had a love for thunderstorms, and the great power and passion at play in the sky there.
This fall, I'm gradually adding fog to that list of loves.
nature
