On Fog

 This week has had more than its fair share of foggy mornings.

I am not sure why fog appeals to me as it does - I like cloudy overcast days as well, so that may be a reason.  There is something about the muting, both of sight and sound, that the fog brings, the soft edges it gives to items near and the complete concealment of items farther away, dim hints of shapes that acquire mythical appearances.  In the fog, trees and houses become monsters.

Walking in the fog is its own experience:  the muffled sound, the floating edges that streetlights acquire, the constant drips of moisture from surfaces.  Now, as it is Autumn, the leaves I walk over have a muffled "slap" as I step on them, so freshly fallen and damp as they are.  People become dimly seen shapes that resolve from the fog and become human, only to disappear again into passing shadowy shapes.

Fog brings all the meditative atmosphere of a good rainy day without the inconvenience of the falling water.  I can get out and do things, but the fog seeps into my thoughts as I do them.  It adds thought and and element of mystery to the commonest of activities:  given a deep enough fog, even taking the trash out becomes something of a meditative adventure into the unknown as the common landmarks between here and the dumpster are erased except for the brief moments that they hove into view.

Would I like fog all the time?  I suspect not:  too much gloom is bad for anyone's soul. But I surely grateful for it when it appears now, a haunting condition that teases me with mystery and thought and can, at least for a little while, make the world almost an adventure.