I like fog, when I’m not driving in it. For someone who seeks new angles on the familiar world, fog is like a Magical Mystery Tour. Looking outside, I see the ghosted landscape, grab my camera and jump in the car.
As I sit at my art table in my studio, I can see a tree across the street. By my calculations, I have viewed it roughly 14,000 times in the two decades we’ve lived here. And only today am I noticing its strangeness.
I am thinking about journeys. I see the pile of boxes in the hall, one of the many that emerged from yesterday’s de-cluttering, and I wonder how we’ll ever transition to a smaller house, when that day comes.