This morning, Mt. Adams is peeking out from the few low clouds that cover its summit. On the other side of the old school building I’m staying in is a range of low, arched hills, deep greens clearly marked by cloud shadows, and olive-toned greens bouncing off the rays of the sun. A mostly blue sky is an incredible way to wake up. Getting to sleep in helps. Especially after a night of deep thinking and friendship work and life-changing decisions. The clouds are moving fast, and I hope to see a clear view of the mountain, before our bus pulls out later today.
It’s mid-January, and the year is already well underway. There are many things to account for my lack of posts: the events of the final days of 2015, lack of clarity.
But fog has played a great metaphor into my life.
Every day I drive down I-205, along which the Willamette River runs. As my wheels race past the pavement, I pass layers of evergreens. In the winter months, when Portland decides to be a bit drier, and a lot colder, fog settles between and among the pines. The same metaphor always enters my mind.
It is easy to be consumed by worry of the future, lack of clarity for what’s next, and begin each day in a sour mood. Often, I have struggled to keep the tears away, or push them out – whichever clears my vision.
But then I noticed the dense layers of fog. The front row of mossy trunks almost completelyvisible, fine detail of each needle apparent. This is my today. My morning, my afternoon, my evening. My tomorrow. My week. What is in the very front of me, laid out before me, to work and to act.
In the next grouping, a blur of a creamy-hued green. This is my next month, my six months from now, my one year from now. Simple lines of self that structure who I have become an am becoming, but who do not reveal the results of such work.
Finally, the silhouette of the deeper recesses of the urban forest, near white. This is my five years from now. My ten years from now. They continue through my hoped-old-age. My dreams, and my hopes, which swirl into the thick journey of the fog, just as cream warmly settles into a dark brew of coffee.
And here in Washington, in my retreat away from the suburban daily grind, it’s the same. Friday night the hills were completely black, nearly all the clouds covering any moonshine. Saturday and Sunday, shades of blue created dense levels of clouds and shadows. Saturday night, a hike in an old cheese cave provided the quiet dark, echoing only the voice of those around you. Providing moments to listen, to absorb, and to respond, without the distraction of a million bytes of information.
But Monday. An extra day off of work. To spend with friends and family. To sit down and talk, and lean on, and celebrate. A weekend of fog, awoken to a morning of clarity. The rich sound of a high waterfall, the soundtrack to a blue sky and a clear view of the mountain. It’s not any old Monday.
Now, as we pull away from Washington, and inch closer to our home, I think of the observance of Martin Luther King. And I think of some truths:
“We cannot walk alone”.
“…continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive”.
“With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of home. With this faith, we will be able to transform the dangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day”.
And I think of a word that marks my heart as 2015 unfolds: t r u s t.
roam&wander 