Yesterday morning was quite foggy in South Central Texas. I love the fog and I would like to tell you why.
A long time ago in a place far, far away, I was dumb enough to get myself involved in a nasty little witch war. For those of you lucky enough to not know what that is…consider yourself lucky. Witch wars are when two or more groups started throwing some very nasty energy at each other. Everybody gets real paranoid and suddenly you can’t tell if that hangnail is just a hangnail or the result of some bad spell hitting you in the tuckus. It’s the kind of thing that makes solitaires go running for their broom closets.
Anyway, the one and only witch war I got myself into got quite ugly and in the midst of it, my marriage ended, much to my surprise. In the course of a single evening, I packed up all my crap and had to find a place to live, quick. I called an acquiantance, whom I had only known for a short time, and arrange to rent one of her bedrooms in her large house out in the country.
The next morning, I moved in what belongings I had and within a couple of hours, a wonderful dense fog had descended and stuck around for about three days. It was the first real peace I had experienced in almost a year. I asked who was responsible and was told and old, African deity named Nyambe (sp?). For three days I was able to walk around the country in complete and utter silence. It was a wonderful, almost womby feeling. I was able to spend those days dealing with what had happened to me and come to peace with the knowledge that I had to take responsibilty for my part in the craziness.
When the fog lifted, I was ready to face the world again. I spent the next six weeks figuring out who were my friends (short list) and who were not (long list). Those foggy days gave me the confidence to know I was being protected and I felt after that I knew I could face anything.
I love foggy days now. They bring a smile to face and I enjoy embracing the quiet. They also serve as a reminder not to allow myself to get into silly situations.