Driving in Fog

As the weather changes and the earth is still catching up, fog happens.

It blankets the surface with a dense, often menacing, lack of foresight.  When I shine a brighter light, hoping to give myself more comfort or illumination on what’s to come, the fog is brighter, thicker, more impenetrable.  I could choose to stay in, not move at all.  But I have obligations, places to go, things to accomplish. 

So I drive in fog.

I go slowly, low beam my way through, taking each turn as it comes, hoping to stop at the signs and go on the greens, hoping that fellow drivers don’t swallow us up from behind, hoping for no wandering Bambi or Woozle in the road.  I accept that there’s more out there than the 1760 feet of road ahead of my halogens, but I can’t look now, can’t afford attention elsewhere.  Focus on the road.  Allow only memories of each turn and curbside landmark to waft into the mind’s eye to guide me.  Move forward, only a few more miles to go.

When the sun finally triumphs, slowly burning away the specs of water (they were, after all, only specs), and the breeze wipes away the rest like a ½ sheet of Bounty, the Earth is shining again, in colors brighter than before. 

And I can see things.

Things I want to do, things I want to be.  And they stack in front of me like shelves upon shelves of juicy novels and movies, ever-filling, ever-begging for me to stop everything and play.  Every time I reach for one, I break a nail and stub my finger on the glass.  I’m yanked back into the safe fog of begging laundry, schmutzy dishes, and tedious 1099 tasks, accomplishing each necessary job one tiresome minute at a time.  I watch the ever-greening possibilities through the glass, but do not touch.

And then the flowers bloom.

There is growth and change and sporadic flames of vibrant color.  Birds I can name suck the middles out of each bloom, boldly flaunting their own blooming bellies in the tentatively warm breeze. Three have stopped at the window this week, almost staring at me, daring me to fly along and stuff my beak in a bloom for a sip.  I’m thirsty.

So I will pour my own.  And drink.

I toast to the warm. I toast to the gifts. I toast to the dance and to the flight and to the symphony of the spring peepers and toads. I thank the sky for being visible and the earth for sipping and soaking it with me after so long being on the rocks.  I thank the front stoop and toast the deck for inviting me.  With my arms in the air, lungs full and curls fluttering in the wind, I fuel up.

And I drive with the top down.