The fog came in on Tuesday night and was content to stay until this morning. It was less bright and the chill inhibited the making of any big plans. This fit my mood and so I enjoyed watching it sift down into the cracks of the city like flour from the clap of a baker’s hands.
To fall by particles like that the fog must come from a place of discontent, or some other strong emotion. Perhaps clouds occasionally fancy life outside their realm, envy the water its easy territory and descend onto its face, rolling themselves out to the edges of the Bay and creeping up the hills to make misty beaches of the avenues. They do their best to flow, but lack sufficient force to work movement on anything save the dangling zippers of our coats.
It’s satisfying, maybe, to obscure the long vistas down to the sea, to trouble the boats, and prove the old adage, “misery loves company”.
Or maybe it gets lonely up there in the middle, not quite air above, not quite water below. Filled and emptied over and over, the water cycle of life can be wearying and unrelenting. It’s understandable if sometimes despair sets in. Sometimes it’s fitting to mourn.
For, then there are the foghorns. Each with a different tone, yet every one like a low full note pulled out of a cello in perfect vibrato. And maybe that’s why the clouds trouble the Earth at all, to give voice to their lament. To hear the music that makes up their sorrow and find the beauty in their grief. Could we all, in like prostration, not find comfort in a similar confession?
To, then, lift ourselves up washed white again after the greyness of grief?
The fog has lifted now. The sun is shining and the windows are warm to the touch.
The clouds move with renewed purpose. Perhaps the sun shines all the brighter through them for where they have been?