Rush of my Heart

The fog came in last night.
The day alternated between rain and beautiful sun-shot clouds that faded into a deep purple sunset. I walked out to the horse pastures before our youth/college meeting last night, outside of the old Barn where we gather each week. Leaning against the barbed wire, I watched the sun sink lower and lower, illuminating sections of the woods behind me piece by piece before sinking them like a ship into a sea of twilight. The air smelled earthy, and as I walked slowly past the silo and towards the 120 year old barn nestled into the countryside, I inhaled the scent of damp wood, old bits of hay, horses and all the other animals that had taken shelter beneath the barn eaves, and the indescribable smell of a rustic building that is quite simply, old. I zipped up my sweatshirt and pulled the sleeves over my hands, noticing that the others gathered there were similarly clad in hoodies and beanies against the chill evening.
I hear that my friends in California have been experiencing a heat wave that leaves them miserably tossing in their beds at night, and searching for a means of escape into air-conditioned buildings during the day. In Washington, on the other hand, we are expecting a hard winter of snow and potential 0 degree temperatures in the coming months. “City girl” that I suppose I am, I say “hard winter”, because I can’t imagine any other word to describe it. The people here laugh when I tell them I’ve never driven in snow, and that the winters I’m used to tend to be more like the early months of Fall here.
I sat in the Barn and watched the world fade to black through the cracks and knotholes in the walls, and as we sang, the lonely cries of coyotes joined our voices, gradually growing louder as they moved towards our small meeting. I like to think that even the creatures of the woods desire to praise God in their own ways. It was beautiful.
The fog came in last night.
It was so beautiful that I came home with a tiny bit of hope in my heart that maybe, just maybe..I’d be able to pick up my guitar and something inside of me would be able to turn the sights and my thoughts of the day into a melody – but after plucking the strings and humming tunelessly for 40 minutes, I realized that the hope had been in vain. Perhaps that small “something” inside of me that used to be able to do that won’t ever come back. I can’t say. My phone rang shortly after that, and the conversation went just like my futile attempt at a song: beginning with a certain measure of tentative hope, then slowly dwindling into an unresolved nothingness that left me dissatisfied and wishing I’d never tried at all.
The fog came in last night.
It lingers in the air still as a heavy presence, and every sound is muffled. I drove puffy eyed through the cloud this morning on my way to work, marveling at the way it changed the light that the weak sun rays produced. It was quite beautiful.
Have you ever noticed that fog feels melancholy? I know I’m personifying a natural aspect of the weather, but when you drive through dense fog, it feels a bit beautifully desolate to me. A bit resigned to it’s fate of burning off before the day has reached it’s peak. A bit…sad.
Maybe it’s just my sleep deprived brain coming up with these fanciful musings, for sleep was elusive last night. Why is it that I always save the hard conversations I know I have to have until right before bed? I distract myself throughout the day with life, but when the night closes in, there’s no other choice but to face what I’ve been successfully avoiding throughout the busyness of the daylight hours.
Oh brain, oh heart, please – please just let me be.
These thoughts turn to soup if I dwell on them too much, and I can’t have that. My students will be arriving in my empty classroom before the hour is up.