I don’t function well in fog, the blurring of sky and earth and pressure of the air something I feel inside as well as all around me. It could be that a lingering sinus woo-hoo mirrors the weather, or visa-versa, but when I look out the window and see only bare, trembling branches and the tops of distant trees morphing into sky, it’s hard to get motivated.
Weather like this calls into question what the purpose of getting motivated. My foggy mind casually deconstructs the possibilities for doing and haphazardly lands on being in a misty, confusing way, which fits well for sitting in bed and watching the birds. This is also because for weeks, my life has been shooting itself toward raising energy, money, plans, outreach, volunteers and more for the big Poet Laureati gathering, and now, a few days before the poets descend and the excitment rises, I’m out of steam…..plus, conveniently, there’s not much to do.
So I sit here in this foggy moment, the snoring dog behind me, the sleeping cat in my arms, the nervous bird on the end of the branch, and a soft buzz filling my head. I wait, and when the crow calls, I think of taking a hot bath to dissolve the soft film between the day and me.