I like to get up before the sun does. Not because it feels like the day is a clean slate full of possibilities, but more that it feels like a magic time when the world is on pause and me and the other people who are awake are in on the secret. But lately I’ve been waking up feeling out of sorts before my eyes even open. If I haven’t quite figured out what I’m anxious about, my brain will stir up some classic worries or find a few new things that it thinks are red alerts. If you keep up with what’s going on in the world at all these days, you’re bound to feel some anxiety creeping in. Unless you’re a psychopath. Or maybe just really well adjusted.
I’ve been told (by a professional who knows about these things) that instead of focusing so much on anxiety and trying to make it hush up, I should just get on with what I’d usually be doing if I wasn’t conjuring up all sorts of impending doom. When I get up at 5am, I have a few hours before going to work and most days I like to spend those hours writing. But once in a while, right when the sun is starting to come up, I’ll get in the car and run the roads for a little bit. The foggy mornings are my favorite, and they don’t last long, so I get going as soon as I can. I’m not a secret goth who loves spooky vapors, even though that would probably be a lot cooler. It’s kind of the opposite. Fog doesn’t feel gloomy to me and somehow helps my feelings of dread quiet down. Maybe its because everything has been put on mute—quieter and less bright. Or maybe it’s from growing up spending hours in living rooms made cloudy from the grown-ups dragging on their Lucky Strikes nonstop. I find comfort in the haziness.
I like to drive up the hollers, where the fog really likes to hang out. Down roads so familiar I don’t have to think about them. Past houses and trailers that were worn out when I was a kid but are still hanging out and home to someone. It feels like I’m driving through a painting of a place I know. It’s hard to see the details of things until I get closer and then it looks stuff is kind of glowing when it comes through the fog. Everyday things with a spotlight on them.
The hills are covered up and tucked in to the blue-grey quiet. It feels like I’m watching a big hug and makes my thoughts start to slow down. Living in West Virginia has its challenges, but one of the perks is that the mountains know how to do fog. These million year old things that are always all around us are POOF. Just gone. And then slowly start peeking through and come back again. The stuff in my head that felt so big and impossible seems downright piddly in comparison.
Some foggy songs just because:
Before I forget - that second photo is a ripe plum of a sight. For me fog is more than visual. I feel like I can share natures breath in a tangible way. Many years ago I lived atop Salt Pond Mountan near Pembroke Virginia. Some mornings the air was fog thick. Or maybe it was cloud. I’m not really sure where fog ends and cloud begins. Maybe there’s an actual definition but it hardly matters. Fog softens the world. Sands the hard edges off things. But it also occupies your lungs as breath. You feel it laying it’s gossamer hands on the hairs of your arms. Where I work there’s a distiller nearby and fog carrys the sweet smell of working mash across the meadow. I stop to take a daily photo of my favorite pecan tree and breathe it in. It’s like the breath of a cow eating silage.
I've found myself feeling the same way about early foggy mornings. When I was at the bread shop the morning drives in would almost make the 4am start time not so bad.