Gray and magical. It’s possible.

I stand at the  living room window, while my coffee brews and my soy milk heats, downcast at the gray. I’m hungry for sunshine and heat. Resigned to another cloudy day, I wander into the den.

(Or, snug, as I’ve started thinking of it. Gerry and I have been watching Escape to the Country, a British television program where they take couples on a search for their new home. Snug is the term they use for a cozy little room. I like it.)

Outside the window in the den/snug, the most exquisite fog bank is rolling by. We used to get fog when we lived in another part of the city many years ago, but I haven’t seen rolling fog like this for a long, long time, and never here.

I stand transfixed as it undulates. I think about grabbing my phone and taking a video, but wisdom reminds me to simply be still and enjoy the gift.

It’s gone now. The sky is lighter and the clouds are not quite so gray. I’ve nothing to show you  visually of my early morning fascination, and the photo I end up attaching to this post will be completely unrelated to fog.

You’ll have to take my word for it. It was gray and magical. This morning I learned the two are not mutually exclusive.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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