I love fog. It’s so intimate. The horizon moves in, the world becomes room-sized.
I love not being able to see very far.
I’ve been in Maryland for a couple of months now, and people are starting to ask me: when are you coming back to Florida? Where are you going next? What are your plans?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
I’m not always at peace with not knowing; I want to see into the fog, to know what’s out there. But of course we never do really know, even when we think we do. My current limitations aren’t so different from anyone else’s. It’s just that I don’t have the luxury (handicap?) of pretending those limitations aren’t there.
I tell myself that something will shift around the holidays. That I’ll have some clear indication of what comes next. What to do, where to go. That would be nice, but of course there’s not guarantee that a glorious sign will appear. Maybe on New Year’s Eve I’ll be sipping my champagne and wondering where the hell my sign is and what’s taking it so long to arrive.
Another time in my life I would have said that “we make our own signs,” but that’s a little too hyper-American individualistic for me now. I’m responsible for my own actions, yes, but there’s a larger world to listen to. It does have things to say. And the direction of my own life is interdependent on the lives of the humans, and trees, and stones around me.
So I watch for signs. In the meantime, I sit in the fog and sip my tea, and take pleasure in not being able to see very far.