Thursday, May 7, 2009
It is foggy along the riverbank this morning—a delicate world seen through a gossamer veil, at once both insubstantial and strangely primeval. I might be the first to ever lay eyes on this diaphanous land. The river is muddy and up perhaps a foot, muted, sliding in soft murmur between wet green walls or dripping brush and vines. The sycamores have their root-tangles in the flow, leaning affably like white-robed Druid priests enjoying a Baptist foot-washing. The goose on the island across from the cottage honks, telling me it’s times for his breakfast. I take a scoop of cracked corn from the barrel on the front deck and toss under the nearby hackberry. That’s when I see the long-stemmed mushrooms which have sprang up overnight around the tree’s base. I love foggy mornings. The light is dim, diffused, yet shot through with a silver pearlescent. Colors are saturated. Sounds seem more rounded and louder in the muffled quiet. On mornings like these my eyes are drawn to the near, the close-up…to those things we pass a hundred times a day and seldom notice—yet are now transformed. Droplets of water on leaves. The bright colored lichens on chunks of firewood. I know practically nothing about lichens, but after a night of drizzles and amid the subtle light of a morning's fog, they are as pretty as any wildflower. There is always great beauty waiting to be discovered if we only look. But really, isn’t that the way it is? It isn’t life that fails to offer us beauty; rather it is we who fail to see—to slow our pace, focus or eyes, open our heart and appreciate all those marvelous things placed before us. Each day is a gift, a blessing. It has never been before and will never be again, but is all ours to enjoy—right now, amid the sweet soft light of an April fog. And I am so, so grateful….