Mist

At this time of year, I start and end my walks in the dark. It’s especially dark when there’s a new moon (as in, no moon) or when it’s overcast. This image is from an overcast morning last week, when the air was still and the mist hung in the almost-morning air. There’s something peaceful about the quiet when the world is still and the air is thick, something about solitude, urban solitude.

I remember walking to my little house in the back woods of New Hampshire on well-trodden paths I’d made footfall by footfall over years. On dark nights I would walk with my eyes closed the better to sense the contours of the path. Closed eyes heightened my awareness and encouraged me to pay attention. And, in truth, I knew that route well.

Is there some larger message here? Something about seeing better when your eyes are closed? Heightening other senses by limiting one? Or is it the benefit of walking the same paths over and again at different times and seasons? Is it not needing newness, simply looking more intently at what seemed to be familiar? Something of that rings true to me.