It’s foggy today. I know that there are mountains and islands and a whole city just out my window, but all I see is fog. It’s the same color as the sky and the water and I’m surrounded by it. I was thinking about that poem about little cat feet except there’s nothing little at all about this fog. But it’s amazing how so few words can become a living thing and part of our standard consciousness. And then I feel a pang in my chest that I’m not writing words like that.
It’s all a metaphor, of course. I can’t see beyond the fog even though I know it’s obscuring an entire world.
I wonder sometimes if I’m being philosophical and wise by trying to let go of figuring out the future or if I’m simply avoiding life. Part of me is pragmatic. It’s a lot of fog. Not much I can do to see through it. It will clear eventually. Another part of me wonders if I’m letting control slip away.
Today, I’m finding the fog soothing and peaceful. I cling to it like a blanket, like a cat with little feet, curled up in my lap.