I felt the Fog descend as we made our landing into Edinburgh two months ago. Having just had a wonderful time at my parents’ house in Tennessee, I put it down to sadness at leaving once again the place and people I love.
Weeks passed, and the Fog grew thicker. I thought maybe I had a virus or was just tired.
More weeks passed and it settled around me even more heavily. I blamed it on the Festival, the noise, the crowds, the constant struggle to try to work in the heart of a city whose population had tripled almost overnight.
But more weeks have passed; the Festival is over; and the Fog has not lifted.
I’ve been here before, and each time, I hope never ever to return to this dismal desaturated landscape.
Even though the world seems monochrome just now, I have to trust that beyond the cloud, the sun is still shining. That although it has disappeared from my view for the time being and I cannot feel its warmth, it has not ceased to exist.
There are times — when I am walking Judy, out visiting, or saying Mass — when the Fog lifts ever so slightly, and that brief return of light and colour holds such hope and gentleness. They are moments which reveal a grace and promise which are, of course, always present, but in life’s normal vibrancy, I often don’t notice.
But the Fog slows my steps, and I find myself looking up much more frequently, searching for familiar landmarks. So in those precious moments when the clouds break, even through the dullness and distortion, the beauty is dazzling.
Inevitably though, the Fog descends again, and on I tread.
I want to remind myself of the brilliance that comes as a welcome gift in these days, so for a wee while, this blog is going to turn into a celebration of colour as I post pictures of things that make me smile and give me hope. I know from experience that in its time, this too will pass; the Fog will clear and I will feel the sun’s warmth again. For now though, I give thanks for the small sightings that promise its return.