When I read her blog this morning, she'd written of the fog that surrounded her home yesterday. It's my turn, as when the day turned light, I could see from my windows that the world was shrouded in a film of gray.
I've always loved the fog. There's an air of mystery about it. I may be perfectly clear in my mind about what it covers, knowing that behind the veil there stands a tree, or our neighbor's home, or some other object of familiarity. However, when I look out and there is a wall of fog between myself and the object, I feel isolated in some way.
I remember the walks I used to take beside the sea in East Hampton. Wrapped in the thick, wet, morning fog that rolled in off the ocean, I'd make my way to the jetty. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and the surf would pound against the sand. My footprints were erased with every wave, and it was almost as if no one would ever know I was there. I felt solitude in my silver, misty cloak. It was complete serenity.
In Maine some years ago, my husband and I sat on the craggy cliff in the early dawn hours. We could not see the ocean, but we could hear it slapping hard against the boulders below. We felt the spray as we sat in the cacoon of fog. The mournful sound of the foghorn warned the boats of the ragged walls at the edge of the sea. The beam from the towering lighthouse attempted to penetrate the air, another warning to those in boats somewhere.
The fog can be a dangerous thing. I don't care to drive in it and would love it far less if I was on the water, or in an airplane, when it chose to make its appearance. It's weather that comes when it will, when conditions are right. So long as I'm in a safe environment, I'll not worry of the danger, but will lose myself in the thoughts of its mysteries and romance. Let the curtains of gray fall and envelop me with its peace and solitude.