The desire to strike off into the wilderness while feeling the tug to stay close to home can be conflicting. We want the thrill of the venture with the guarantee of a safe path back to the campsite. The way back is not always clear, we remind ourselves. So, we stay stuck in our mode, refusing the adventure of living in the moment, and we miss discovering our true selves.
My grandson, Eli, who was then 9 years old, 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. Our dogs were quiet, so I didn’t suspect any critters loose in the yard.
“What is it?” I yelled from the garage door.
“Come feel the fog,” Eli beckoned.
Eli was standing still in the early morning fog with his arms spread wide.
“Come feel the fog,” he repeated.
And so, I did.
I stood with him, my arms stretched wide, and twirling around, let the fog settle on my skin, breathing in its dampness.
Driving in the fog is a matter of necessary caution, especially at night. We take it slow, headlights on low beam.
But feeling the fog—the droplets of rain floating around, landing on our faces, dampening our clothes, and muffling sounds—can be both comforting and alluring. It’s like being wrapped in a comfortable blanket yet exposed to the elements. We can see, but only a short distance.
We may feel strangely disoriented yet centered. It seems perfectly natural to stand and feel: no call to move onward and upward, no evaluation of how we are getting along, no one watching, for the fog’s murkiness disguises our presence in grayness. We are hidden but not lost. In the mist, we simply are; we exist in our “thisness.”
And to the quieted soul, this can be inviting, even soothing.
But beware: Feeling the fog can become as dangerous as driving in it. We like it, but it’s possible to get lost in it, too. It can anesthetize us, carrying us further to sea or wherever the danger zone may be for each of us. Then, the fog’s dampness begins to slick down our arms, and we become convinced its vastness is smothering us, which gives birth to fear, anxiety, and panic.
The fog may be that once-fulfilling relationship that has soured. It might be a substance that once took us where we wanted to go but has now become an oppressive god; it’s a career that once satisfied the longings for security but somewhere grew dull and drab and oppressive. It can be us wrapped in ourselves, our bodies, our youth, our image, our egos.
It is possible to get lost in the very place where we once felt safe. Something that once upon a time wrapped itself around us in peace no longer exists. It’s become mysterious, strange, even foreign. Waking up and looking at the clock, we no longer know the time. Standing on wobbly legs, we peer in the mirror and ask, “Who am I, really?”
Yet, feeling the fog, really feeling it, can be the first step towards home. It can become the road to liberation, for we have taken the time to confront our false selves.
Standing in the fog and facing ourselves for who we are, where we are, and what we’ve become might clear the mist, making way for light.
The renowned Swiss psychoanalyst Carl Jung observed: “People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own soul. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light but by making the darkness conscious.”
For the Christian, it comes through the light of Christ, as the Apostle Paul confirmed: “We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright!” (I Corinthians 13:12)
The mist lifts when we find the courage to feel the fog.
Awakening, we find ourselves.
And it’s a beautiful place.