It was fall when we moved and some of my last and best memories of the area are walking early in the morning, when the mist still hung heavy in the air. I would go down our long driveway, along the road past a little house with two large birch trees in the yard, with their golden orange leaves falling softly on the ground; peeping up in the grass were whimsical toadstools. It was just as if I passed a page in a fairy book each morning, its own little picture shrouded in the fog. At the oak tree, I would turn off the country road down between two fields, the ruts of tires cutting into the grass, a wheel line stretching away into the mist marking my path. As I walked, little drops of the vapor would cling to the wisps of wool on my hat, taking me into the magic crispness of the morning.
I love fog. I love the way it romanticizes the every day and ordinary, turning the landscape into softened silhouettes, emerging them one at a time as you draw nearer into dew laden pictures, shutting out the past, hiding the future, and silencing the present. Fog is like fairyland, and into the mist your spirit soars and you can dream.
That is what I miss the most; early morning walks through misty landscapes.
Wherever I go, there are treasures to be found. I don’t have the same beautiful misty mornings here. We get fog, but it is different, somehow. Up on our mountain, I’m enjoying a new season in my life. In the winter the cold snow fell and I got to go sledding, a winter sport I haven’t enjoyed for a long time. And one of my favorite memories from our first winter here was a walk up the snowy mountain, in the soft light of evening with my mum and several siblings, while little snowflakes twirled and fell softly in the gathering dusk. It was another chapter to add to my fairy memories.
With spring came an abundance of wildflowers in a surprising variety. Whenever I ventured outdoors it seemed I discovered a new specimen or another color of the same flower. I flower lover at heart, it was as if a treasure chest had been given me. For many weeks I delighted myself with arrangements of the wild beauties that brought spring indoors.
As spring faded into summer, the bounty of the wild fruit began to unfurl its arms of plenty as wild cherries ripened, raspberries were discovered, apples began to grow, pears started forth after the blossom of their flowers. There is something about the bounty of the wild that hearkens to the pioneer that must lurk somewhere deep within me, and something that makes me have to pause to marvel at such an awesome God giving such richness and treasure to us.
As fall came, the fruits of summer ripened and more surprises greeted me. Yes, I knew there were plums; in fact there were several varieties of purple plums. At least I think you would qualify them as purple, though they were not the strictest hue of that color. But I was thrilled to discover yellow and green plums too! And in one area all three grew near each other. Down a little lane through the shrubbery that when snow covered it, looked like a path into a storybook, and in the light of late summer, beautiful, plump fruit was the fulfillment of a sweet plot.
As I was approaching my trip back East, I thought back to four years previous when I had last been there. I had expected many changes, and I looked forward to them. But if you I told me where I would be today, I would have been very surprised. I don’t think even my wild imaginations could have turned my life through the paths it has taken. It was fun to think back and try to imagine myself seeing me where I am today. It's almost like taking a peek into someone else's life.
I never would have planned the changes that have happened as they have, and yet, I am thankful for them as they are.
Cold winds blow, the first light snow has already fallen and a full year on the mountain has already turned round. I’ll always miss those romantic foggy mornings, but I’m cherishing every exciting discovery as I turn the pages on my new adventures. And someday again, I’d like to pause, and think upon where I am in the future from the perspective of the past.
I wonder where the road of my life leads?