Fog is an apt metaphor for states of consciousness. This morning, the fog was soft, white and thick in the icy darkness. Even the light of day didn’t lift it much and so, unlike just darkness, fog is soft and frightening in its quiet. We seem to tread more quietly, take our time. A broad, beamed light might actually make it worse, so it’s not like the dark, black of night where a light shone brightly can illuminate the way. In the fog, you must feel your way and hope for the best.
I don’t like skiing when the visibility is bad. I become my most fretful, worried self and I clench my muscles in an attempt to control my body on the mountain. No matter that I know I’m likely on a run with others, some more or less skilled, and they are making it down. It is the fear of loss of control that makes me leave my body and reside in my head. When, in fact, my body’s knowing will save me from any danger.
Trust the body. The body knows. If I know my street, I can walk in the fog with few surprises, unless someone unknown emerges from the mist.