The littlest one wakes from a jet lagged nap, fitfully inconsolable. Screaming, screaming, nothing soothes. Weary and frayed, I decide to get out, to take him for a walk.
On my way out the door, the husband and I get into a spat. My temper flares. We're here to enjoy, but we’re all of us a mess. I march out the door.
The boy strains against his stroller straps, wailing for all the neighborhood to hear. He wants his happy place, close to my heart. So I strap 30lbs of nearly two-year-old chunk to my chest and take off down the road. He snuggles in close.
The sea pulls me like a magnet. I’m pounding the tension through my heels. I traipse through the forest, skirting puddles of mud. The air mists, the sky wisps grey. I come to the edge of the sea, on the shelf of a cliff, looking down at the sand. All around me is fog, I’m in the midst of a cloud, rolling in off the water.
My breath is steadier now. The boy is perfectly perky now, the jet lag demons have vanished. We find a bench and settle ourselves. I sit to sort myself, to wade through the thoughts and feelings swirling within. And I feel nothing but in the thick of the fog.
In the fog of life.
I long to see the horizon, to see hope and promise on the other side of “It’s all too much” today. But the fog lets me see only where I am, what’s right before me, no farther.
When I stop straining to see the horizon, when I look down at what I can see, it’s then that I see – the beauty around me, too easily missed when fighting the mist.
The flowering grace of right now.
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