Socked In

Saying goodbye-last picture of Russia as a taxi drove me to the airport, 7 years ago. 

It's been foggy the last few days, cold and dreary, can't see anything, the air hurts your skin. Later in the day, the sun often pierces through the fog, bringing a clear view and letting us to see a bit further out from ourselves.  But today the sun was deceiving, warm enough to burn off the fog but so cold it left ice everywhere. The ice made everything more challenging, risky, different. The sun came out, but it did not return everything to normal.

Grief is a fog. It clings to you, absorbs you, and blocks you from seeing anything around you. What's around you may be normal, but grief transforms it so that you are overwhelmed and anxious. When you are wrapped in a fog, the world has not changed, just your perspective of it and the very fact that life continues as normal, behind a screen of blurred reality, is offensive. Anyone who has gone through depression or a time of grief will tell you that going into the outside world, entering the fog, even to complete the most simple tasks, is a challenge and just staying home, warm, familiar, known, is much easier. How dare people not know my pain? Why do they smile and go on like nothing has changed?

Fog diminishes in patches. You are going along, unable to see, alone, and then you blink. Suddenly you can see everything around you and it is bright and normal. Then, you are back in the fog. You don't know how you got there or when you'll get out again. It takes time for the sun to overcome the fog and it takes time for life to overcome grief.  People may tell you that you will be able to see clearly again. And they are right. And you know that, but you are immersed in grayness and can't see right now. And that's okay.

They say that prayer is powerful; it either changes your circumstances or it changes you. Which is true, just not always very comforting. When the sun came out today and burned off the fog, I could see everything. I just did not like what I saw.