Almost everyone has had the desire to strike off into the wilderness. But we’re a conflicted bunch, aren’t we? We want the thrill of the venture with a safe path back to the campsite. Unfortunately, the way back is not always clear. We’re like the hopelessly lost hiker, “Let’s see, is that pine cone the one I left to mark directions back or was it there before I was ever here?”
My grandson, Eli, was standing outside the garage early one morning: I was taking him to school that day.
“PopPop, PopPop” I heard him shouting. “Come see, hurry.” I checked my watch. We had plenty of time to get to school. The dogs were in the house, so there was no crisis of a skunk or other critter encountering my two Schnauzers.
“What is it?” I yelled from the garage door.
“Come feel the fog,” Eli beckoned.
“Come feel fog.”
And so, I did.
It’s one thing to drive in the fog, especially late at night. My first encounter with highway fog was when I was a kid, third or fourth grade. Dad had gotten tickets to a Dallas Cowboy’s football game on a Sunday night. The four of us—Dad, my brother, Mark, and cousin, Cuffie —especially Cuffie—talked about how bad the fog was. Speaking to my dad, Cuffie would say, “L.D., it’s thick as pea soup,” which was curious to me since I’d never had pea soup. But I did know I’d had enough of the fog. Dad kept driving; Cuffie kept talking. And we got home. Eventually.
Years later, it took my oldest son, David, and me twice as long to get back from a Cardinals baseball game in St. Louis because of fog. We drove all night, arriving in home just as the sun was rising and the fog was lifting.
Driving in fog is a matter of going slow, keeping your headlights on low beam, and being as cautious as you can. At least you know the right direction as long as you stay on the road.
But feeling the fog—the droplets of rain floating around you, landing on your skin, dampening your clothes, muffling sounds around you—feeling the fog is disorienting.
Momentarily, judgment is suspended, direction is murky, and vision is limited as the mist envelops you like a blanket. It seems perfectly natural to stand and feel: no call to move onward and upward; no evaluation of how you are getting along; no one watching, for the fog’s murkiness disguises your presence in grayness. In the fog, you simply are; you exist in your “thisness.”
And this is inviting, even comforting.
But beware: feeling the fog is no less dangerous than when you’re on the highway. You like it; you might get lost in it; it may even anesthetize you, all the while carrying you further out to sea or wherever the danger zone may be for you. Then, the fog’s dampness begins to slick down your arms, and you become convinced its vastness is smothering you, which gives birth to fear, anxiety, and panic.
It’s a relationship that once was thrilling but has, you’re not sure when or how, become co-dependent; it’s a substance that once took you where you wanted to go but has now become an oppressive god; it’s a career that once fueled you and brought happiness but somewhere grew dull and drab.
You’re lost in the very fog where you once thought you had found yourself. And the fog has transformed you into something mysterious and strange and foreign. You wake up, look at the alarm clock, and wonder what time it is. Standing on your wobbly legs, you wonder where you are. And looking in the mirror, you ask who you’ve become.
And maybe that’s the first step towards home, once the fog begins pulling you away.
You finally, hopefully, stand in the fog and face yourself for who you are, and where you are, and what you’ve become.
Somewhere in the process, as it’s stated in The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, “A wonderful light falls upon this foggy scene.”
And the fog lifts, and you find yourself in a beautiful place.
Once you’ve felt the fog.