Mist and Mystical
i struggle to get out of bed each morning. i have placed the alarm clock as far away from myself as possible, so that i am forced to crawl out from under the blankets and off the bed, in order to stop the way-too-perky sounds of the music. i dont even have a favourite radio station set. i fear that i will find it too relaxing, and remain blissfully snuggled, unaware of the time. And isn't it just rude to be getting up before the sun does?
i climb bleary-eyed into the shower, which does help enormously to get some blood flowing. Some days i have more energy than others, especially if i have managed to sleep through the entire night. Lately though, i find myself tossing and turning, waking frequently during the 6 hours i have alloted myself for sleeping. (i can hear doctors everywhere hollering that this is just not enough time ... how do i explain to them i only sleep well when with Master, His hand protectively on me all night?) strong>
Once showered, i head for the computer to check for messages, then the blowdryer and makeup. This is a ritual that i have done for many years now. Am i becoming set in my ways? Feeding the dogs was added into the routine when i returned to work last March. i really hate opening the patio doors to let them out when it is cold. But they are grateful in their haste, as they ignore my grumblings and push their 60 pound bodies past me, racing to the farthest tree.
By seven, i am in the hubster's room, poking his ribs to get up, then going to my own room to get dressed. i keep telling myself that i will get organized and make clothing choices the night before, but i never do. Usually i end up grabbing whatever my colour-blind-challenged eyes can coordinate, and dress quickly, hoping all my tags are tucked in. Then i am back downstairs, dashing about trying to find shoes and invariably continuing whatever argument the hubster and i were having the night before, as he makes a sandwich for me. i guess in spite of our growing differences, some habits are going to continue for awhile. And i really do appreciate finding food in my lunch bag.
So the day doesn't start all that positively for me, although it isn't really bad either. Just stressed i suppose. However, lately i have been enjoying a stolen favourite moment, which occurs shortly after i have embarked on the half hour drive to work.
For months now, the city has been building an up-scale subdivision not far from my home, which opens onto the highway i travel each day. At one end of the subdivision, a very elaborate golf course is being built. It has many hills that gently slope toward level spaces, joining at a small and centrally placed pond, before rising and rolling along again. i have enjoyed watching the work crews watering and nurturing the growth of the grass coverage, and even i can see the multitude of rich greens.
It is while driving past this place, during the last month or so, that i have discovered a moment of pleasure. Because of the weather subtly beginning to change in preparation for winter, there is a soft fog over the golf course each morning. This has resulted in the greens appearing to have a mystical quality, an aura which i absolutely love to see. i am fascinated by the way the fog seems to hover softly, just above the level of the earth, so that the rich colors sharply contrast against the grey mist. As my eye travels upward i note how the fog becomes more dense, obscuring the view of the hills somewhat, then begins to thin again, allowing the sky to show through. i feel a sense of calm as these impressions register in my mind, and i continue on.
i am reminded of a play our local highschool staged one year, called Brigadoon. i was very young, perhaps about 12 or 13, and while watching the production had been holding hands with a boy, for the very first time. The story involved a town that was lost to the fog. i can't honestly say which impressed me more, the boy, or the play. i do know this has remained a very positive memory for me, and i think of it as i drive through the heavy mist now.
There is also another fond memory of the fog that i have, from my childhood. We lived on the outskirts of town for a time, surrounded by huge fields. About the length of a "city block" away, but still in view, was a small clump of trees that we liked to sneak away to. This was directly against my mothers' wishes and though i never really understand why, i suppose she had her reasons. Yet great adventures were to had at this "island in the fields", so we always found excuses to justify being there. Later on it became a place my cousin and i would spend time in, sharing our dreams and hopes and frustrations.
The best part of this place, for me, was when the fog would roll in, early each fall. Then, i would be the only one brave enough to go to the trees. They were always totally obscured from view and i had to guess which direction to take, hoping that i would not get lost. Walking slowly, my heart would pound with both fear and excitement. Once there, i always enjoyed a moment of profound relief, glad in the knowledge that i had arrived, yet knowing that i was not really that far from home. i would then settle on the ground, leaning against a tree, and indulge in some delightful fantasies. There wasn't any other world out there that i could see, or that i needed. No house filled with grief; i was away from that. No one to tell me not to cry so, very often, i did. i liked to pretend i was an orphan, secure in the haven of the fog.
Reality would always return of course, usually with the sounds of my mother calling me. Her voice would be faint yet insistent, and i would reluctantly rise and move in the direction of home. The first time i disappeared like this, i was punished physically. The second time, i was grounded. The third time, they left me alone. Now, as i remember and write about this time in my life, i wonder if my mother had begun to realize i needed this safe place. And so decided to allow it.
Maybe, just maybe, she had needed it herself. Or maybe, for her, life was a fog that she struggled to clear away. i wish i had taken the time to ask. Even though it is too late to try to explain to her how the fog makes me feel, i shall continue to look forward to seeing my own "brigadoon" each morning, and enjoy the calm that it brings to me. Maybe my daughter will tell me about hers one day.
Or i can simply ask.