Dawn Phelps
Columnist
A few years ago, I was scheduled to attend an early morning meeting in a town about fifty miles from home. When I left my house that morning, the fog was “as thick as pea soup,” and the poor visibility continued for about thirty miles.
During those miles, I was forced to drive slowly. I felt vulnerable and unsafe as I crept along, overwhelmed by the engulfing fog. My fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly—I was tense, feeling unsure just where I was. Even though I was on a road that I have traveled frequently, the road no longer felt familiar, but strange and eerie.
I knew that at some point on the east-west highway there was a one-lane bridge under construction. I remembered one recent evening when the temporary traffic light had not been working. So I was afraid I might not be able to see the light in the dense fog, or worse yet, that the light would not be working at all.
As my car moved through the fog, I remembered Carl Sandburg’s short poem about fog, one I had memorized in grade school. It reads:
“The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.”
The fog was silent all around me, sitting on “silent haunches.” I was thankful when I came to the bridge and the light was working even though its light only shone dimly through the thick fog. The light turned green, and I drove forward, hoping no car was coming from the other direction. I made it to the other side safely.
A few miles later, I approached the interstate, turned on my left blinker, and slowly moved onto the highway, hoping there was no vehicle in the lane into which I was merging. I breathed a sigh of relief—again I was safe!
As I slowly drove southward, there were times when the fog lifted momentarily. It was reassuring to even briefly glimpse the highway in front of me. Then the fog would close in around me again, thick, white and silent. Then ever so slowly the fog became less dense, and I could see the highway clearly, even the sides of the road.
By the time I reached a small town about fifteen miles south on the interstate, the fog had completely lifted in front of me, but remained in the lower areas, sitting “on silent haunches,” hovering close to the ground. Then the sun began to peak through the clouds in the southeast sky, displaying a sunrise with gold-lined clouds—a glorious and welcomed site after the fog!
Driving in the fog that morning reminded me of my life a few years ago when the pain of losing my husband to cancer was so acute. Life had felt unsafe, unfamiliar, and I was unsure if I could find my way. Thinking back, my grief experience was similar to driving in the fog. At first my fog was so dense there was no clarity at all. Then I experienced some brief moments when the fog would clear, and I could see the road ahead.
My fog still lurked in the lower-lying areas, but no longer confronted me head-on, totally obstructing my hope for life. Then, with time, the fog seemed to move on, leaving me with memories of the good times and some of the sad memories began to fade.
Like the clouds with the gold linings, there were still clouds, but my grief was less severe, and the sun began to peak through. If you have recently experienced the death of a loved one, perhaps the fog in your life is still very dense.
You may feel afraid and unsure of where life may be taking you. It may be difficult to see your road ahead. But hang on—the fog does not last forever! The fog may linger nearby but maybe not as up-close as in the beginning.
Don’t forget to look for that gold lining and take extra care of yourself. Overwhelming fog does not last forever. With the passage of time, like Carl Sandburg’s poem says, the fog does move on.
