The Magic Lingers
Just a short one, I coaxed myself. Just enough to shake the fog from your mind. I laced my shoes and tiptoed out the door. At the top of the hill, the park waited for me, its entrance opening into the street like arms outstretched. Most mornings when I come around the bend to the place where the path runs along the Long Meadow, a clearing of green blades glistens with the night's tears in the light of a new day. But not today.
A dense white blanket tucked the meadow in up to its chin, as if a cloud had seen a glimpse of earthly beauty and come down to make its home here. The other runners looked with longing at the scene over their passing shoulders and pounded ahead with a glimpse, but I stopped, and then I turned and left the path. I ran into the sky, and met it there on a hill, in the space just above the ground. The blades bathed my shoes and the dew soaked through to my skin, and the mist enclosed me in a ring. I stood there, hidden from everything but the earth, the light, and the watercolor sky.
Life feels foggy after profound experiences. The magic lingers and calls us to step off our determined paths. Not forever, just long enough to shroud unnecessary things from our sight and to fill our lungs with the meadow, even long after we've left the lake.
I'm introducing the new journal here today at noon (EST).