Afloat in the Fog

If the universe had unfolded as it should have, I would be curled up this morning in a comfortable chair somewhere in (or near or on route to) Traverse City, Michigan, drinking coffee, sharing tales and catching up on life's adventures with a group of wise (and much loved) women friends with whom I try to get together around this time every year.

It is sufficient to note that this year I am here rather than there, and I was feeling blue when I awakened this morning before dawn and pottered off to make coffee, but the open kitchen window had a small and much appreciated surprise for me today. We were afloat on the first of the autumn fogs like a leaky old wooden schooner drifting in the Bay of Fundy, and nothing could be glimpsed of the garden behind the little blue house in the village.

The only thing to do in the circumstances was to bundle up in our jackets, caps and "wellies" and go for a long walk in the fog with Cassie. It was dark when we set out, but our favourite village trail was pure magic this morning. There were occasional chirps and scraps of melody from songbirds in the hedgerows and small cottontail scamperings were heard among the grapevines, but nothing could be seen of our wild friends at all. At times like these, I always seem to head off into the green, and the protocol has always stood me in good stead - I return refreshed by the experience and soothed by what I have discovered, even on days like this one when the universe is unfolding as it should not, and I cannot see.

Now the sun is coming up, the music of Frederick Delius (La Calinda from his lovely opera Koanga) is floating out of the CD player, there is a mug of good dark coffee in hand, and I am girding myself for another day, putting on (perhaps) the armour of light.