Morning Fog

 Before dawn, fog from the distant river drifts up the hill, filling the woods behind my house. It’s a bit gloomy, but it’s also mysterious, like something’s afoot. Yesterday there was sunshine, and the brightness brought a surge of energy. Today, not so much. I want to put on a sweater, sit on the deck, sip hot tea, and use the fog as an excuse to remember how life used to be.

This happens when you’ve battled grief, these moments of looking back, even if you’re years down the road and have patched a new life together. Some days you wonder about the what ifs, mostly the big IF—if they hadn’t died—but also the choices you’ve made, some quickly and some you declined. What if you had chosen differently? You also want to think about how you’ve changed, and what you have learned from life because of grief’s journey.

 

As daylight brightens, the sun rises and illuminates the white particles of mist that float and turn on the whims of the breeze like the murmuration of starlings.

 

Then I see it.

 

The three closest trees are in sharp focus, like a black and white Ansel Adams’ photograph. I can see the distinct patterns in the different bark of the maple, oak, and walnut, how one tree bends slightly to the left before straightening, and the tree with a large branch that broke off during the ice storm last winter. Why did I not notice these details before the fog isolated them? They were there the entire time. Normally I see hundreds of trees and a quarter mile of woods behind my house, which means that I don’t really notice them individually. Now there are only three trees in the woods, and only twenty feet. The rest of the forest is hidden in the fog.

 

The three trees are stately and stand silently like serene sentinels protecting the woods. Like Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and Rocinante battling injustice. Or Dr. Who, Amy, and Rory unveiling the illusions that humans often use to keep themselves happy but blind to sharp edges of reality.

 

Sometimes I need a fogged-in day to focus on what’s important.

 

What I want is to notice everything going on around me. I don’t want to rush out the door with my day planner and see nothing but the meetings that are scheduled. I want to experience at least one moment each day that is utterly real, that gives me a taste of the transcendent, brings an insight, or a glimpse into someone’s heart. I want to be surprised.

 

I want to slow down and show compassion for those I meet who are suffering. I want to listen to the spaces between their words and hear what they are leaving unspoken.

 

If the fog had not caught my attention, I would not have noticed the trees, or the dancing of the fog, or, later today, the stranger on the street that I risked saying hello to with an exchange of words of kindness that changed the entire outlook of the day for both of us.