Here we are at last, in a little Mississippi town on the Gulf of Mexico. We have come here to avoid the winter ice and a massive remodeling project in our home up north. And, providentially, as a place for my husband to heal after a severe back injury.

Here we are on the beach, for the first time.

Most unexpectedly, intense fog shrouds the water.
I can see a few feet into the Gulf, but beyond that is only whiteness.

Above the sand and water, the world is white and ivory, with gleaming spots of pearlish brightness that might be where the sun is trying to break through.

It is a mysterious and eerily-beautiful sight.

Frank and I walk slowly on the boardwalk. When Frank stops to sit, I go down to the water.

I stand by the fog-shrouded Gulf and silence myself, opening my heart and mind to a voice not my own. The voice says, “Embrace the fog.”

Fog is a great deal of my life right now.  I am exhausted, from two extraordinarily busy months. From helping Frank. From the busyness of Christmas. From getting ready for our home renovation. From the preparations for the trip. From the drive down.

I seem to move about in a personal fog as well. I got lost when I went for a walk. There is no measuring cup in our bare-bones rented apartment. How can I measure my morning oatmeal? We are not yet unpacked; haven’t figured out how or where to get mail.

In my spiritual life, I feel the fog of unclarity, as well. I feel hungry. Empty. Waiting.

I return to Frank’s side and we continue slowly up the boardwalk.

It feels disorienting not to be home, not be immersed in my daily routine.
Here, there is no to-do list. Only fog, the sound of the waves, the smell of the sea.

When Frank stops to rest I go back down to the water.

This fog is not at all what I expected, I think, rather peevishly.
“Embrace it,” that voice that is not my own says again, as I stare out into the water, into the fog.

I don’t like confusion and not knowing. I like clearly seeing my path and marching forth upon it.

But the fog is a fact.  There is no changing it.

“Wait. Rest. Write,” the voice says.

Wait for Frank’s back injury to heal.

Wait for a daily routine to emerge, here in this new place.

Rest.

Immerse myself in my writing once again and let the peace and joy of that creative act restore my sanity.

So I choose to do those things.

I choose to embrace the fog.

And I am listening, in the quiet moments, for what it can teach me.