Fog has its ways
What is true now? It is hazy outside. A thin fog is settling down, moving around like a dog to find the best place on the pillow. It is near 50 degrees, there is a drizzle. I feel like fog, settling, settling, ready for rest, ready for softness, ready to flow.
Fog flows gently, turns aside or soaks anything in its path: it does not matter, there is a place. Fog has its ways. Fog is good. Fog causes us to stop our thinking, to go slower, to drop our agendas. To an agenda, fog gets in the way. Fog does not bother itself about agendas, they are and they are not, and either way, it matters not to fog. What good is an agenda anyway, especially if you cannot enjoy the fog?
Somewhere the rain is making ping ping ping. The rain on the roof tells me everything is OK, everything is as it should be, everyping. God right here, fog in my fog.
This little maple, naked in the late autumn fog, seems pleased to have this loose fitting garment to hug. Pitter patter.
:- Doug.
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