Fog Magic

I live on a stretch of California coast that is known for its summer fogs. Tourists arrive in shorts and t-shirts, expecting sunny California, and promptly exchange them for sweatshirts and jeans. I knew this before I moved here. We call it "June gloom." What I was not so prepared for was the July, August and September gloom that followed. This has been a summer-less summer, and I find myself pining for light, light and more light.

I remember the winter I lived in Paris. Apparently it was the coldest winter they'd had in 40 years. More than the cold, I remember the short, dark days and how they oppressed me. I felt heavy, lonely and chronically "under-the-weather." One day, I was crossing the Seine on my way to class and I felt myself smiling. When I checked in, I realized I'd been smiling and even humming to myself since I'd step outside. Then I noticed: the sky was blue and the sun was shining! This was a the first time I realized that I am weather-sensitive.

Knowing is one thing, but choosing a healthy response is another. Complaining is not the option I have in mind with this blog post. When I woke this morning and say more gray, gray, gray, I'll admit that I sighed. Then I smiled to remember one of Stephen Covey's teachings: carry your own weather! Good advice, Stephen, and I have done a fair number of visualizations and guided meditation practices that focus on bringing in the light, turning up the light, and breathing the light. My "light" bulb this morning, however, took me in another direction.

What if . . . what if I said "yes" to the day's weather, in any form? Today, fog is my teacher. Rather than resisting, what if I could get curious? This fog has persistently knocked at my door nearly every day for the last 90 days. What gifts, what magic, is this teacher offering me?

As soon as I said "yes," things felt much, much better. I softened. This softening seems to be one of the primary qualities fog embodies. Things are much quieter in the fog. Traffic, birds . . . everything is a bit muffled. "Soften" is good advice. I can speak it to the tension in my neck and shoulders: soften. I can shine it on my need to wrangle my day into some particular order: soften. I can use a lot of softening.

With that softening, I find another magical teaching reaching toward me in this fog. It reminds me that learning to navigate the gray areas of my life is probably one of the most helpful things I can learn in these days of pandemic, global breakdown, aging . . . I feel a softening here, too. This magic appears to be interwoven. I will better serve my world and myself as I navigate the unknowns if I soften, let go of the illusion of control, and befriend the gray places.

Now, when I look out the window, it isn't to see if the fog has finally cleared or shows signs of breaking up. I am breathing in the magic, letting that swirling gray be a reminder, a prompting to soften, to relax and release, and to sit with my unknowns. Whatever plans I could make are too small if they keep me from the wonder of this moment. As I write, the fog moves in even closer, obscuring everything but the nearest of trees from my line of site. I feel held in a blanket of softness and content with the mystery and magic of the unknown.