As a teenager living in the foothills of the Coast Range, only one type of weather struck me as characteristic of Southern Oregon as rain, and that was fog. We don't get it as much here in Eugene/Springfield, but when we do, I love it. This morning, I awoke to discover we had fog. Not the wispy mist that lifts up off the ground in some places, but a true fog, the kind where you can't see past your own back yard. It was just what I needed after this weekend's trials.
Fog has always reminded me of a security blanket, or a privacy curtain, just like rain, but it fills that role more quietly, more unobtrusively than rain. I used to love to go walking in the fog, listening to the stillness, feeling wrapped up in its cloudy folds, separated from whatever might be happening just beyond visibility, shielded from prying eyes. Fog embodied solitude. Not loneliness, solitude. All of those good memories of fog came back this morning. It was like a gentle shoulder hug from God.