As we move somewhat blithely into the Thanksgiving holiday weekend in middle America, Wal-Mart workers are planning a (first-ever?) strike, bombs are reigning with new passion in Gaza, and the weather this morning is utterly bizarre. Despite the worldly events that would otherwise capture my attention, I am distracted. It is the weather that captures my imagination as I try vainly to focus on seemingly more important subjects.
The sky looks like Christmas morning. Gray yet filled with promise in the way that only Christmas morning can. As I gazed out my window, I felt a childlike sense of wonder and anticipation. I talked with a mom as I walked in this morning who said that her children looked at the sky and proclaimed that it must be snowing. Which is exactly how it appears, except not. There is no snow and no precipitation of any kind, and it is oddly warm, very warm. In fact my light sweater was almost too much.
Scientifically I know that this sky has specific names (beginning with “fog”!) and that there are particular factors that come together to make it just so. When I get home this evening I will ask my favorite science teacher to explain and I will delight in the deeper understanding that she will share. In this moment, though, I am left with the poetry of the sky which is at once filled with promise and also the unmistakable hint of foreboding, caution. Together they dance in the sky making visibility difficult, a veil that lays over the world and slows us down.
There is much wisdom in respecting this veil where possibility and caution meet. It is an uncomfortable place that we wisely avoid, delaying the start of the day and even the next decision until the fog lifts. Without the gift of the fog, the heady stand-off of energies, we rush too quickly down one path or the other. The weight of the fog slows our steps, deepens our breath, and invites us to more careful choices.
In a pace more gentle, I am struck that so much of the drama in my life and in our world would be quieted if we practiced the gift of the morning fog. Pausing to respect the energies that collide, their power for both good and evil, we would use careful words and listen with new care to any manner of newsfeed. The caution of such space slows our holiday rush, offering room for more respect for all of the players. Yet even in the caution of the moment, there is an unmistakable promise in the air. The children felt it, and so do I. The promise is what some call our “still speaking God” and others call the “everyday sacred”. The promise is Santa Claus’ surprise and the mystery of flying reindeer. The promise is that after the longest night comes dawn and that the fog will lift.
As I feel the rhythm of the keyboard beneath my fingers, the sky is clearing and I am aware of how precious the moments we have to take notice. Soon I will be in the car and on the run once more, but for this precious moment I am keenly aware of the holy that is as palpable as the sky itself.