In the spring of the year when the air is warm, the humidity rising, and yet the earth remains in its more frigid state, a fog will rise.
The fog begins low to the earth and rises up from the valleys to ascend the hills.
I walk into the fog at its first rising. I feel like a tall tree or perhaps even a mountain as I turn my face to the heavens and behold the twinkling of the stars, and the soft glow of the moon, just as they are peeking through a crimson and golden sunset.
As I cast my face back toward the earth, I see below me a mist, which clouds my vision and makes my footing unsure.
Yet, as I look up again, there is wonderful clarity.
Walking through the fog can be a marvelous thing.
As the twilight deepens and the skies lose their crimson glow, the fog comes to meet my face.
The cool dampness of it caresses my skin and cools my body from the warmth of the day.
My sights are limited to the spaces before me, and those I see as though in a room lit dimly.
My mind leaves that place of worry and wondering about what lies in the far distant future, and concentrates solely on what is in the immediate.
Walking through fog can be illuminating.
In the depths of darkness, the moon and stars are hidden from my view by the mire of the fog that surrounds me, suffocating me, making me invisible.
I am lost in its density, struggling to find my way on a path I’ve traveled for all of my life.
My heart sinks in despair, then raises into my throat as fear envelopes me and robs me of all good judgment.
Walking through fog is terrifying.
I pray for strength, I pray for insight, the pebbles beneath my feet feel like boulders as I struggle to stay on the path.
I reach out my hands, grasping for some something solid, someone solid to give me a sense of security, only to find a vast wall of nothingness.
Tears are blurring my vision, flowing down my cheeks in waterfalls of despair; I am lost and alone, with no hope.
Walking through fog is humbling.
My struggle seems to last my lifetime, the journey is endless in a world that is no longer familiar to me.
I push forward in fear. I fear what lies ahead, yet I am afraid to turn back, afraid to face what is behind me.
As I struggle forward, I stumble, I fall, I cry out in fear.
On my hands and knees I crawl forward, and suddenly the fog lifts, I see my surroundings and laugh aloud.
You are standing there, your smiling eyes peering into my soul, you hand reaching out to bring me upright again.
The moon shines brightly illuminating your face, your smile reassures me that I am once again in a safe, secure place.
As the fog dissipates, and the sky lightens with brilliant splashes of blues, purples and gold, a new day begins.
The fog is once again at my feet, and I am a mountain or perhaps a tall tree, turning myself to embrace the warmth of the rising sun, and the promise of a new day.
Walking through fog is a marvelous thing.
