something about foggy mornings
allows one to ease into the day
I walk a little slower
density
“Magic doesn’t sweep you away; it gathers you up into the body of the present moment so thoroughly that all your explanations fall away: the ordinary, in all its plain and simple outrageousness, begins to shine – to become luminously, impossible so. Every facet of the world is awake, and you within it.
The deeper I slid into the material density of the real, the more I found that there was nothing determinate or predictable about existence. Actuality, this inexhaustible mystery, cannot be domesticated. It is wildness incarnate. Reality shape shifts.”
~ David Abram
mostly foggy
a few days in Maine
“Mornings meant ‘thick o’ fog’ that caught on rooftops and dripped, blurring weathered gray shingles while barely muting the deep pink of rosa rugosa or the hydrangea’s blue. Wood smoke filled the air on rainy days, pine sap on sunny ones, and wafting through it all was the briny smell of the sea.”
~ Barbara Delinsky, Sweet Salt Air
engulfed
“the ocean mist
engulfs me, like a lifetime’s
friendship honored.”
~ Sanober Khan
scenes of a foggy morning
I’ll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I’ll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I’ll make a sound that’s so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I’ll make me a sound and an apparatus and they’ll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.”
“The Fog Horn blew.”
~ Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn
November
on Chestnut Hill Farm
Southborough, Massachusetts
