I just came back from a late night walk in the fog. It moved in this afternoon, so thick that one could only see a single block at a time. It was eerie, haunting and gorgeous. I could not see people, but only their colorless outlines and it seemed like we were all villains. We were all hiding something, doing something, thinking something hideous.
I narrated each character's malicious deed. That woman is poisoning the weak man whom she is helping from the car. That man is leaving his mistress' house. Those men are discussing the disposal of a body. The woman with the slumped shoulders killed her neighbor's cat and ate it for dinner. The girl in heels, walking the miniature Australian Shepherd is procrastinating. She should be working on a triptych, but is lingering in the fog instead. OH THE SHAME!
There is something about walking in the fog that I find enchanting. Walking through thickness is apropos, for me. Never-mind the silly, and slightly deranged game I was playing. We are all innocent until proven guilty anyway. What I want to share is how magical the fog made everything. The sky was black, and the street lights shot out infinite beams through bare, winter trees- ebony branches turned passage-ways. The twirling, intangible mass engulfed me and became my elusive companion. Tranquility dominated an otherwise bustling cityscape. Gosh, it was beautiful! These are the times during which I sense God. When moments and space seem to align and strike something unnameable inside of me.
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