The November fog has descended onto Neuchâtel, rolling over yellow vineyards to hang as thick as my thoughts in pastures green.
Truth be told, my mind has been in a fog this past week, full of ideas and plans and Things I Need to Do. What will I be writing for the November Project? When am I going to start preparing for my oral presentation? How should I reorganize my kitchen now that I have a little more space (but unfortunately not more time)? What should I make for dinner? And who will I find to sing the canticle to Scarborough Fair when I play it on the guitar and sing the melody?
Fog. No cohesion…just particles of vapor brushing by each other. Brief contact and then they dissipate. I get so caught up in the mist and my senses become so deadened and dull that I forget to look up and take in what is around me.
I went out to buy food today and came back at the beautiful stretch of time between day and night. I stopped suddenly just outside my house transfixed by the brightness of the moon playing hide and seek behind remnants of clouds. The air was cool and the ground was damp from the rain earlier this afternoon. Pebbles crunched under my boots and birds whistled sporadically. No real tune, but unpredictable chirps that strung together to form a sluggish melody to welcome in the night.
The house across the street had their dining room light on, easily visible through the window. A warm welcome. I thought (not for the first time) that light is attractive. We search it out naturally and gravitate towards it. We need light in the midst of our darkness, something to penetrate the fog and remind us that there are moments of joy and wonder all around us. They are happening now, slipping by us as we continue in our daily routine, unaware. We need to look up and receive these gifts that are being offered to us every day. We don’t have to wait for the next great experience or the mythical future where everything magically falls into place. What we have is now.
Seek the light that penetrates the fog.