I want to share something a little different with you today.
It’s a draft of a piece that will (may) be a part of a larger project I’m working on.
I wrote it a little while ago, and even though I will be revising it, I noticed that in its current form it captures exactly how I’ve been feeling lately.
Especially since I wrote to you last.
But it’s also how I felt almost exactly two years ago when I wrote this post shortly after George Floyd was murdered. And this one that came about after being inundated with nonsense (not the right word, but it’s the best I’ve got at the moment) immediately after his murder… and still.
And even when I’m dealing with mere nuisances (in the grand scheme of things) that currently affect my quality of life.
(I’m looking at you faulty injector pen filled with my rheumatoid arthritis medication; and you, company that made me do most of the heavy lifting so I could get my replacement on time; and you Dr. ear/nose/throat specialist who agrees to see a patient (me!) who needs surgery even though you know you’ve already given up your operating hours so now I have to wait even longer to see someone else… and why insist you’d never prescribe something with steroids in for me after I expressed concerns… and then go ahead and prescribe something with steroids. Thank you pharmacist for catching that!)
More importantly, the following piece contains reminders I need to make my way through times like these.
Maybe they’ll be helpful reminders for you too…
I sometimes feel like I’m forever in or coming out of a fog. There are times I leave one and enter another only after an extended period of rest. Other times they work together as unrelenting tag team wrestlers, never giving me a chance to catch my breath. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m in one until it clears and suddenly, I can see farther than I ever have before. And there are times I wish the fog could be a constant shield that’ll keep me forever hidden.
Not all fogs are the same, of course. But, whether it’s real and you can see it outside of yourself or imagined and only felt internally, there are similarities. Many of which I’ve only become familiar with once the fog has lifted and I’m trying to analyze my memories. Once it’s passed, I make myself promise to remember it all for the next time.
But it’s a promise I often forget.
I move slower when I’m in a fog. I don’t always know what’s in front, behind, beside, above or even below me and my fear forces me to be cautious. Words are harder to find when I’m immersed in a fog, so I listen and look more. But sounds are distant, muffled, and my vision is cloudy. My body feels like it’s wrapped in wet wool, and nothing feels right when I touch it, so I keep my hands to myself. It takes a lot of effort to exist in a fog. Even if I decide to stay still.
A month before I turned twelve, my parents, sister and I went on vacation for the first time to the east coast of Canada. While in Nova Scotia, we visited Peggy’s Cove. It looks exactly like it did in all its postcards we’d found in the gift shops along the way. The water is to the right, the white and red lighthouse stands at the water’s edge, with smooth grey rocks at its base. A brilliant blue sky above it all.
We did our best to remain upright while jumping across the crevices in the rocky base of the iconic beacon. It required so much focus that I didn’t notice the dense smoke-wall that floated in off the water and completely swallowed the lighthouse behind me. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soon replaced with my parents yelling at me and my sister to run before the fog devoured our car, too. Having never seen my parents run before, I knew this was serious. Like the other families loitering around the landmark, we made it back to our car. But my parents postponed, indefinitely, the promised visit to the gift shop as we raced the fog to find a hotel.
I recognized, but didn’t understand, how terrified my parents were of being vanished by a weather front. And how that fear of encountering it again was enough for us to turn our back on the area and never return. What was once a desired beauty to appreciate, was now a nightmare to avoid. Our experience at Peggy’s Cove became a repeated story whenever there was even a hint of fog mentioned in the forecast.
It wasn’t until I moved with my husband to our house on the hill, years later, that I could appreciate their fear. Most evenings and every late-night as I drove up that hill towards home, a fog greeted me. It didn’t matter the season, or temperature, a fog was there to surround me.
It didn’t hesitate to make itself known, mainly because it had nowhere to hide, and I wasn’t a fan of its aggressive ways. The fog disappeared the lines on the road, the shoulder, the trees beyond the ditch, the random car ahead of me, and the tiny headlights in my rearview mirror. I rolled windows up; turned off high beams, and I slowed the car to a crawl. I couldn’t see what was waiting for me, but I knew to be afraid of whatever it was. I only knew how to run from a fog. Not to go through it.
I regretted our move.
And yet, the fog remained an enthusiastic puppy waiting to greet me no matter what time I arrived home.
Before I reached the top of the first incline, I knew it would block my view of the massive house with the many garage doors I hoped to tour one day. Since the house vanished during my drive home, I paid it extra attention during my morning commute to my office. If I timed it right, the shadows in its front garden looked like gigantic Muppet silhouettes. At night, I imagined them as hidden bickering guardians that would come to my rescue if the fog attacked.
Once I reached the summit, I knew the fog would clear slightly so I could see if there were any deer hanging out in the field where the fall fair is hosted annually.
When the green light at the intersection gave me permission to go, I’d notice the fog slither from behind the sushi restaurant to make its way across the road again.
This cycle of being dense than dissipating was one the fog ran through again and again for the rest of my trip.
Noticing this cycle is how the fog became a trusted companion as we settled into a comforting routine. And like most companions that I’ve encountered in life, it helped me recognize the benefits of befriending it.
What I said earlier about my senses feeling dull when I find myself immersed in a fog is true. But where I once considered that a hindrance, I now see as a gift.
When a fog disperses, blues become even more vibrant. Anything yellow looks like sunshine and reds make my mouth water. Whispered melodies make my insides dance, and the air carries a freshness that makes my nose and skin pay attention. I’m giddy to reach out and feel what I was hesitant to touch, or be touched by, before. I want to take up all the space that I can now clearly see.
The clarity that comes after the fog is a high I’m incapable of giving up. Having my environment turned up to an eleven helps me greet the lessons that line up for attendance while I’m doing my post fog analysis.
None of this would be possible if a haze hadn’t preceded it.
Thank you for reading what I’ve written. I appreciate you taking the time to do so.
Enjoy the rest of your day.
PS. I’m not usually able to re-watch a movie I’ve seen until at least a few years have passed. But I knew immediately after finishing Everything Everywhere All at Once the first time that I NEEDED to watch it again. And after my second viewing two days later, I know a third one is coming soon. This clever movie will make you laugh, cry and cheer for adorable heroes. Have you seen it?
PPS. Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner surpassed every great thing I had heard about it! Make sure you’ve got something handy to soak up your tears while you’re reading it. It’s beautiful.
PPPS. The next bonus session for Exploring Creative Connection Through Visual Journaling is happening this Sunday, June 5, 2022 from 1 - 2:30 pm ET. All participants are invited and there’s still time for you to join us! Click here to claim your spot around my virtual table.