A Misty Morning Walk

 

I love the morning.  The still silence before the people interrupt with their machinery and voices.  The quiet of the woods as the shift from night to day begins.  The time for reflecting on dreams and planning for the day.

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Today, the mist was thick, shrouding the future with its solemn mystery.  Fog is beautiful in the way it makes you focus on what is immediately before you.  It reminds me of a child in its wonderment, “You have to see this!  No, look at it!  This, this, and only this!”  Indeed, it is all you can see; what is right before you.  Don’t worry about what is ahead, my dear.  Look at how beautiful this place is.  This place.

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It is beautiful, isn’t it?  The birds have returned from winter’s home and fill the trees with song.  The leaves have opened.  The path is full of fading, graying memories…

Why do we grieve so hard for the living?  Because there is nothing wonderful, I suppose, about the death of connection – sometimes it’s murder and sometimes it’s suicide and sometimes it’s natural causes that compel our distance.  There is some deep place of suffering when you are no longer welcome in the place you called home.  It was the place you called home… but don’t come back. I wonder; does everyone lose that place at some point or another?

I am reminded of the fragile nature of strength when my back buckles of its own choosing and I stumble.  Every muscle is called on to keep me from collapsing to the ground.  The pain steals my breath away.  I long for tears to cry.  How I wish there were tears to be cried.

But no.  No.  It is too early for tears.  It is too early for anything but hope.  Hope and dreams and coffee and silence and plans. Today, I plan to heal just a little bit more.

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In only a moment, the air fills my lungs again.  The dazzling pain is quieted.  I straighten back up.  I find the steps forward along the path of gray memories in the most pleasant company of the birds and the trees and the mist.

“Look at this!  Look at it!  Isn’t it beautiful?!” The fog asks.

That it is, my friend.  The most beautiful place I have ever been.

 

One thought on “A Misty Morning Walk

  1. If you hadn’t asked, I would have remained silent, willing to enjoy your vision. However, you asked: “It was the place you called home… but don’t come back. I wonder; does everyone lose that place at some point or another?”

    For some, there was never a place called “home.” There was the place you were raised, but it was no place anyone healthy would call home.

    “Home” is something “out there, and if you can only find it, you’ll never leave.” I’ve defined many places “Home” over the years. At first, it was wherever I was staying, even a hotel. Then it became where my dog lived. Wherever she was, was home. She’s been gone ten years. I call the place I live “home,” but it still isn’t a Home. I only live here. I finally had to decide that “Home” wasn’t so much a place as a feeling. There are people with whom I feel “Home” when I’m with them. There are places I feel like I’ve come “Home.” When I arrived in England I felt like I’d come home. When I visited Scotland I felt like I’d come home. Whenever I fly to L.A. to visit friends I feel like I’m going home. It’s any place where I feel acceptance even as I’m asked to be a little be more than I was before I arrived.

    Glad you were able to enjoy the walk, in spite of the physical bobble. And thank you for taking us along.

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