reaching out into the fog

I have spoken about the fog before. I do love the fog, and we are certainly gifted with many a foggy morn, in our part of the world.

When I look out my window and see the world through the gauzy veil, I don't know...it just feels like the world is wrapped in a cozy blanket; shrouded... protected.

We live near a river, in an old fishing village, and if you listen carefully on a foggy evening, you can hear the mournful sound of a fog horn in the distance. Instantly I feel transported to the river, where imagine I can see a fishing trawler with a cautious fishing crew at the helm. The boat creeps along the silent, still, dark waters, blindingly navigating the fog, journeying through narrow waterways searching for safety and rest, in the dock yards.

It has been foggy for the best part of a week; not just in through the mornings either. Sunday happened to be foggy the entire day.

In part, the fogginess mirrors my current physical state. I am on the better side of the flu now, and am recovering.

Today, I took my son back to pre-school for the first time since the dreaded lurgy hit us. I was still rather groggy, which only became apparent once some one spoke to me. I was off in my own little world, staring off into the hazy distance of thought, while waiting for the school doors to open. Then reaching out to me through the fog, I heard a voice, a second time. The person was standing right there, but I had failed to even realise that they were talking to me.

"Hey, has your family been sick too?"

I apologised for my lack of awareness..."Yes, yes. Sorry. We have all been sick. I am not really with it, quite yet". I shook my head at my own stupidity. I usually have the observation of a hawk, the fog can affect such things.

I guess I also like the fog, because I am forced to used senses other than sight, to get my bearings, which tends to bring other kinds of awareness to light. The fog tends to bring out the details of nearer objects, since we are not able to be distracted by the distant scenery.

Yesterday, for example, I looked out my bathroom window. The old cedar in the backyard bore a single dewy droplet on the end of each of its spindly twig-like branches. The sun was straining through the fog, an iridescent white disk staring like an eye in the sky. The sun was angled in such a way that the droplets appeared like hundreds of tiny white fairy lights were adorning the sad, winter-bare tree. It was so beautiful against the grey.

Yes, I do love fog, but I will be more than happy to welcome back the clear blue skies and warmth on my back, when winter gives way for spring - in its own time.