A fog hangs about Agassiz this morning. No mountains or hillsides or even sky for backdrop, just the yellow-dropping-leaved trees in the neighbour's yard. Other mornings have been the same, riding my bike to work by obscured moonlight, dew condensing on my cheeks and jacket and gloves. By noon the fog burns away and corn-stubbed fields, the damp hazelnut groves, the kaleidoscopic neon yellows, oranges and greens on the surrounding slopes, all fall in the sun's warm hold.
Today I am in a wispy place.
Last Saturday, I strode up soft, October-sun-obliterated drifts of snow, up loose, rusty-red rocks to the top of Mt. Cheam. I went up to say goodbye. I looked down the steep face of the mountain I look up to every day. I found the house I live in, the houses I had lived in, the houses my friends lived in, the roads we drove, the gravel we biked, the paths I ran. I picked out the place where I worked, the field where we grew, the cranberry bog down the way, the brown parcels that had been corn, the green swathes that had been hay. I saw the threads of the river, the shadows on the bridge, the sand we stuck our bare feet into, the rocks we skipped. I pinpointed the cemetery with the age-etched gravestones and steep steps and fallen leaves where we howled at the moon. I named the hillocks and the farms and the streets. The entire actuality of this last year laid out in front of me. There was mist creeping up the Fraser Valley, hiding everything past Sumas from view, but up there, I could see.
Today that is harder.
I had a dream once that I was blind. I had lost my eyesight and I was scared. My body fumbled into unknown edges, crashed into walls I was unaware of, hurt I hadn't anticipated. Then, slowly, I began to feel things. I slid my hand over crooks and curves, into cracks and corners. I felt edges and angles, and as I did this I saw what I was touching. I knew its shape and size and, what's more, I knew its colour! I moved with grace and ease, no longer afraid, feeling the vibrations around me, feeling the rainbow of colours. I couldn't see and still I could see.
Now it is afternoon and snatches of sun are working away at the mist.
It is hard to see what is behind me, or what is ahead, in this fog. In between one place and another; work to finish and work to come; paths I remember and ways I do not know. Still, I must move. I trust that I can see things my eyes cannot.
*In one week, David and I will be in Pemberton, nestling into a new valley, looking at a new mountain range, a new river at our side, new fields to plant and harvest, a new house and farm to make our own!