Fog Lights
Warm fronts have summonsed fogs to the saltwater creek near our house this week, shrouding water and landscape with a layer of misty fabric. It reminds me of the all-cotton dishtowels Mom used to drape over Sunday lunch. Soft to the touch, they lounged on Pyrex dishes, loose and lazy in their coverage.
In concert with this fog, the tide has been rolling in slow motion, making reflections sit still, pond-like. I like this respite from the January cold. The warm moisture creates boings of curls around my head and inserts a bounce in my step.
Winter fogs are real stunners, not in the normal sunny “everything is perfect” way, but in the irregular, uncommon beauty of that which alters the ordinary. The fogs of late are smoky and sexy and I’m crushing on them.
These aren’t the first fogs I’ve taken as lovers; I’ve always had a bend toward this type of weather. As a youngster, when my comprehension was tunneled and singular, directed at that which was visual, I found fog delightful. From the window of our little farmhouse on the hill, I thought that the pastures had vanished in vapor, as if a magician had performed a disappearing act, only to be returned with sunlight. On some levels, this sounds concerning, but it was my first real encounter with mystical.
There are times that I wish life was like this, that I could hide in a space and let the dishtowels of fog nestle around me, nuzzling me with their clouding. Age and experience have rained down with the reality that fog is more funhouse mirror than eraser. While it’s real, its products are illusionary.
As with most anything that distorts, there are beliefs around the features and benefits of fog, along with fear and power. While fog itself doesn’t have a smell or taste, what it traps and pulls downward to the olfactory receptors might, causing fog to have scent and flavor.
Though fog itself doesn’t emit noise, there’s the theory that it’s silent or quiet, which may be attributed to animals feeling vulnerable to predators that can’t be seen, so they keep their traps shut. Fauna is smart like that.
In transportation, there are signs such as “Fog Area” and “Dense Fog,” and foghorns for sound alerts in dangerous conditions. High visibility lighting flashes for vehicles and boats, and the reflective fog line painted on roads exists as validation for how quickly the ole peasouper can drop into a situation and change the perception of surroundings. No matter the mode of movement, there’s increased risk of struggle and losing the way in foggy environments.
The essence of fog shifts what’s seen, smelt, tasted, and heard. It changes how we navigate from one point to another. Yet it’s how I feel about fog that I’m trying to examine. January 2024, big fog keeps showing up in my life, and we’re having a moment that I can’t shake.
Psychologically speaking, I could have a foggy mental state, be in a brain fog, or suffer from Covid-19 related fog thinking. I could even be diagnosed with FOG, a syndrome of sorts caused by fear, obligation, and guilt incited by being in relationship with someone with a personality disorder.
Most of my personal fog is self-inflicted. My daughter called me out on this once. “Mom, that is totally delulu,” she said. I laughed as I love new-fangled words delivered from twentysomethings. But it’s true. My positivity strength can over-function, causing me to stall out, unable to admit hard realities. This is onset by not wanting to give up on people or situations or not fess up when life isn’t as good and tidy as I might like it to be. It’s easier to run the fog machine than take stock in the sunlight. I’m trying not to be a fog monger, but it’s a hard habit to crack when deep seeded in the power of being posi.
Our dog, Toast, has a checkered past. Stray, pound, prison “new leash on life” program, adoption, adoption returnee. She volleyed around for two years before she put her suitcase down at the Carter house and announced that she was home forever.
As rescue pet parents, we do all the things. She has a collection of seasonal collars, Bark Box subscription, doggy sweaters, her own Barefoot Dreams blankey, her own king sized with SleepNumber mattress adjusted to the firmness of her liking – which also happens to be where SHLB and I sleep at her discretion. Even though in my head, I heard Daddy saying, “It’s a damn dog,” we paid the $149 for Embarq Animal DNA testing. She’s so stinking cute, we were thinking she might be Corgi, or maybe Jack Russell. As she snuggled into my lap, I joked that she was part kangaroo, part love bug.
When the fog lifted with the unveiling of the results, we were thrown off balance, seventy-five percent Pit Bull Terrier, the rest split between Poodle and Dachshund. Nary one of these breeds would fall in my top ten favorites. In fact, I doubt we would have fostered and adopted Toast if we knew her DNA, which would have been such a dang shame for all involved, as this little nugget has brought such energy, joy, and love into our household.
When people comment on her and ask her breed, I temper my response to the situation as a means of fog control.
“She’s an everything bagel.”
“She’s a rescue.”
“She’s mixed with Terrier.”
I’m not sure why I’m hesitant to come out with the truth, “She’s three quarters Pit Bull and the smartest and sweetest dog I’ve ever owned.”
A brush with bizarro world and a man I’ll name Butthead offered me reflective fodder when I was walking Toast on one of these foggy afternoons. “That looks like the dog what’s been up and killing my chickens.”
“I’m sorry,” I responded. Toast wagged her tail.
“I said, that looks like the dog what’s been killing my chickens.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, it looks like it.”
I outlined the facts: (1) Toast is always with us or on leash; (2) I don’t know where he and his chickens live; (3) Toast doesn’t even like chicken. She prefers lamb.
I feel certain that he had insight into her lineage and decided to accuse us on our afternoon walk, of whatever unfortunate demise that has come to his chickens, not knowing that I also have some Pit Bull in my checkered bloodline. I also suspect that he got under my skin because before my relationship with Toast, I might have jumped to a similar foggy conclusion.
Call it denial or delulu, what I’ve been avoiding in certain situations is the truth because of the stigma and conversation associated with the preconceived notions around Pitties. Is it that I don’t want Toast to be judged or that I don’t want to be judged for owning her? Ugh. It’s the latter. Is it that I know that Butthead has friends and family who feel the same way about the Toasts of the world and that I’ve been guilty of these same kinds of emotions? That too.
If I’m worried about that judgment wrapped around my adorable rescue pup, what else in my life am I posturing and positioning rather than just moving with bravery in my own truth?
“She’s three quarters Pit Bull and the smartest and sweetest dog that I’ve ever owned. She’s made me take a hard look at myself and my biases and I’m grateful for that.” While I enjoy a good external fog, I’m fighting against the internal, as living in light defogs the mirror and lifts the haze toward clarity.
