There’s been a fog hovering low over Dawson yesterday and this morning. It obscures the hills behind a colourless veil. It lifts sometimes: tendrils of cloud drift across the slide that presides over the north end, to reveal the town, its trees and its tall, dry wild grasses, all delicately picked out in hoarfrost. We can see the sky again, white tinted with the palest pink, blue, and lavendar. And despite the wind, the hoarfroast with its jagged crystals, clings to the twigs and branches, not to be shaken loose.
I’ve been feeling this fog within myself, these past few days. But on the occasion that it lifts, I don’t see a similar beauty. I’m stuck in this socked in valley right now, stuck enough that I don’t even want to see the sun because the grey and the fog is so familiar. I reject the possibility that when it lifts, it could leave something singular and beautiful in its wake. I want the grey fog. I want to nest in my duvet in the dark. I want to make a pot of rice and eat the whole thing with hot sauce. I want to zone out, to stumble through unaware.
At the same time, I know this isn’t true. I don’t want to walk through life like this. I want to see the bare bones of my self picked out in ice crystals that seem so fragile but that can’t be shaken. I want to glitter in the muted sunlight. I want to be new and not new, revealed to have always been there, obscured. I’ve written about this before, haven’t I? And yet it’s a lesson I can’t seem to absorb. Or maybe it’s just that making the changes, the internal changes, the changes in routine, the changes in my thought patterns, are so damn hard to make and sustain. It’s easy to slip on the ice. The fog is always there, just waiting to coalesce under the right conditions.
I accept that this is the nature of reality, part and parcel of being alive. I don’t have to like it.