Mist

I stepped out the sliding doors into my tiny back yard early this morning. My garden was shrouded in mist. Immediately I was brought into the moment, into my body, into awareness. Last night, as I was driving home from work, mist was materializing, softening the strip malls and industrial sites into mysterious, ancient ruins.

What is it about mist that so captures us and reframes our perspective? Perhaps we are so accustomed to the landscape around us and to our place within it that we stop seeing it altogether. We don't notice that the magnolia tree has produced a rare, purple fall blossom. We don't notice the enormous oaks and maples in the park slowly losing their leaves. We don't notice the massive fall clouds gathering above us. We don't notice the familiar. And, even the changing seasons are familiar after awhile.

Mist changes everything. It moves in unexpectedly and creates ghosts and medieval scenes from the ordinary. My neighbor's house becomes a castle. My garden becomes a silken shroud. The trees become silent giants watching over us.

And, mist moves. It's never the same from one moment to the next. It makes the landscape come alive. Mist is a shape changer, a messenger from the Big Dude and the ancient gods. It says, "Take notice. Be awake. I am here."

I love the mist. I love the mist at the edge of the ocean, the mist rising endlessly over Kentucky's hills, the mist sweeping in from the Great Lakes. It softens the sharp edges of what we think is reality; it softens our own edges. It invites us to merge into the landscape, to join the gods, the progression of history, the ruins and the castles. It makes us mythic for a moment. It's a kind of grace, a second sight, isn't it? Roxie