A Word on Fog

"This is perfect hoa hoa hoa weather," my friend said from the passenger seat.

She was, of course, making a Twilight reference. We were winding down the North Shore of Lake Superior, our other friend asleep in the back seat. The earth rose to our left and dropped to our right.

Into nothing.

Just a mass of white where lake should be.

It looked like the world ended there. Like we were up in the clouds, a floating island.

It looked like the end of the line. Even the road in front of me was gone--like we would dive into nothingness if I kept my foot on the gas.

As the road curved in the distance, the shore peeked out again, black in stark contrast with the white, all color stolen by the fog.

The next day, we walked out to the lighthouse. The town was to our right, and the white expanse was to our left.

Like it followed us.

We couldn't see the lighthouse that was our destination until we were more than halfway there.

The horizon I love so much had vanished. The calm, blue waters just floated away. I love the line of the horizon--so clean, so simple, so pure.

But fog is simple, clean, and pure.

The tension eases.

I can focus on the here and now, not worry about what's next, but just trust that there's more.

Yes, I'm coming up with life lessons about fog.

As long as I'm reaching, we came up fearing smoke from nearby wildfires, but found the gentler, cleaner relative. Is that the benefit of low expectations? Maybe. Or the benefit of striking out into the unknown? Most definitely.

Granted, the North Shore was by no means "unknown" for me. But this time was different, because of the fog--and the company. Three twenty-somethings touching something like freedom.

Mabye we did dive into something while driving towards the fog, because we all experienced a few moments of peace, distance from our lives--beloved as they may be. And then when we returned south, everything was clearer (Yes, this is still a life lesson about fog).