The haunting strains of Jeff
Wayne’s soundtrack to HG Wells’ War of
the Worlds was brought to mind this morning as I witnessed the unfolding
revelation of the landscape in the valley below. Bathed in the benevolence of
sunshine from my vantage point, what looked like the giant machines propelled
by Wells’ Martians began to emerge from the dense fog, ominous, out of place.
Drifting up from below came
the mournful sounds of cows objecting to the early morning chill, while two old
dead gnarled trees stood as sentinels as they have for decades, witness in
their lifetime to countless droughts, floods, and gale force winds as well as
times of plenty.
Fog is such a fluid thing.
While I watched, it slowly drifted away from the higher slopes, revealing more
of the farmland beneath. Sheds started to appear, fences, trees, power pylons,
then just as quickly a faint breeze in my face heralded its return and what was
beginning to be exposed once more became swallowed by a thick white blanket.
It ebbed and flowed much the
same as the water’s edge, commanded by unseen forces, though what was a thing
of beauty from my spot above it, no doubt would have been experienced quite
differently by those immersed in its bone chilling cold.
Simply driving through fog
can be quite daunting, straining your eyes in an attempt to peer beyond the barrier,
and even shedding light ahead doesn’t guarantee a better view, simply reflecting
the whiteness even more. Unseen dangers have a way of emerging at a moment’s
notice, and require diligence and quick thinking in order to deal with them. Similarly,
there are times when we feel like we’re in a fog, floundering around without a
way forward, waiting for the oppression to lift so we can set out again on a
clear path.
The moods evoked in a fog
can be very similar to those we experience daily. Fog has a way of concealing. Toddlers
amuse us by covering their eyes in the belief that if they can’t see you, you
can’t see them, but hiding something doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The skeletons
in our closet, though hidden from view, have a way of lurking in the recesses
of our psyche, and unfortunately manage to slip a bony finger around the closet
door now and again and peek out to remind us they are still there. Shutting the
door again is usually the immediate reaction, though not necessarily the wisest
move.
For me, mist enshrouded
landscapes have an attraction all their own, transforming clear lines and
distinct colours into an ethereal beauty, but for many the best part of fog is
in its lifting. Those days when it drifts in and obliterates the scenery for
hours chill you to the core. All warmth is gone, and a depressing mantle of
silence hangs in the air. But the moment the temperature rises and the fog
starts to rise, it’s like the burden also is lifted. The sun finally penetrates,
the fog disperses, the world which seemed to be on hold awakens and comes to
life once more.
Whether we operate in a fog
or not, there is much in our lives we choose to conceal, sometimes to the
detriment of both ourselves and others. To be able to reveal more of ourselves,
to emerge from the things which prevent us from reaching our potential and from
being who we are meant to be, to see clearly a way forward, now that would be a
real blessing.
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