Soft and foggy

a dispatch from the blankets

 Awake already?

Awake early. The mist from the lake is rising to meet the sky. Spiralling pillars of mist, water ghosts dance on its glass like surface. There’s not a wisp of wind.

Not a car can be heard, nor bird, nor chainsaw. All is foggy. All is quiet. All is soft. 

Though I love sunshine, I’m equally happy in the fog. Fog makes everything look gentle and still. Fog makes everything soft. In an angular world of requirements, competition and the blazing sunlight of truth, a nice gentle, soft fog is welcome. 

So much of life is incredibly hard work. We experience strains in our relationships at home, with friends and at work. The very world we live in is seldom gentle and kind. We’ve adapted to endure the harsh realities of extreme cold, hot, wind, snow and rain. We’ve made things soft for ourselves.

Yet being called soft is at times an insult. The expectation of ‘grit’ and being able to ‘grind it out’ implies a kind of hardness. Our flesh says otherwise. Sure, when and where we grind ou…