… on a welcome sense of otherness
August 12, 2016
When I was getting these photos ready to put up, I actually googled the difference between ‘fog’ and ‘mist’, because I first typed ‘Mystical Morning’ and then that made me think of ‘misty’, and I liked using ‘mist’ better than ‘fog’ right then.
But then I thought, ‘Well wait. I need to look this up because someone is bound to call me on it if I use the wrong word.’
Like, ‘Uh, Lisa? This is so totally not mist but is fog because visibility in this image is easily one kilometer – or 1,100 yards if you are metrically challenged which I’m sure you are because you are, like, American.’
And then he (in my mind this self-righteous condensation zealot is a ‘he’ but I am totally okay if you want to go with ‘she’ because I am happily gender neutral but refuse to use ‘it’ or plurals because I am feeling snippy (and also a bit irreverent.) Then, to add insult to injury, he would add that the UK are a bunch of air perspiration deniers because their definition of fog doesn’t even kick in, for driving purposes, until visibility is less than 100 meters. According to Highway Code 226.
Because, yes, he is a dick and he would have to show you that he knew that.
But I digress.
The experience some mornings over the waters and into the coves around our house and barn and gardens here is mystical. I can watch it, sit in and among it… and that feeling washes over me with the air itself.
‘Fog’ seems a word too heavy somehow.
Myst feels right.
And so, in the early morning I sat, and watched, as Myst rose and fell.
Its fingers reaching over sixty foot pines and spruce in attempts to reach the water’s edge…
And once there, it lay like summer’s morning blanket…
Until the echo of gulls signaled the start of a new day, and Myst took flight.
Yielding to the sun in contended surrender.
Thanks for readin’.
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