It is late November and winter has hauled its gloomy tarp over the island. The sun has not appeared in weeks and I wonder if it will penetrate the dreary skies any time soon. I’m feeling light-deprived for sure, but more than that, I sense a kind of tedium sweep over me.
There are signs of rain; it might even snow if the temperature drops. I’d welcome snow—the cheer it lends to these dark, drab days of winter. Like a kid, snow has always drawn me to its newness and light. I’ve watched children respond to it with uninhibited joy. Grown-ups, not so much, but then, tasked with clearing steps and shovelling paths, many of us end up chit-chatting with neighbours we haven’t talked to since we were out raking leaves last fall. A sociable activity if you’re not out there all by yourself. Snow draws people to their windows too—suddenly the view has changed.
But when morning comes, there is no snow. Instead, I wake to dense fog—a grey shroud that insinuates itself into every crevice of the landscape. Invading psyches, too, it seems. Have I stumbled into a scene from some bleak Victorian novel? The heaviness puts a damper on the festive spirit that usually surfaces in me this time of year. Christmas is just around the corner. It’s a struggle even to remember that feeling, but this chill is real enough. A sense of further isolation creeps in. With every passing day, it deepens, leaves me longing for escape. Truth is, there is no escape, no new adventure on the horizon.
And this atmospheric slump might last another week. Fog is heavily influenced by nearby bodies of water, topography and wind. It tends to form when a cool stable air mass is trapped beneath a warm one.
Memories of last summer break through—pleasant thoughts that take me back to woodland trails and beachy explorations; they deliver me from my broody disposition. Even so, after weeks of bridled restraint, my Sagittarian soul wants out.
The tedium is lifting and now I crave the swift release of spontaneity, and so I head for Mount Washington. Up and up and up, and there, at 5000 feet, is brilliant sunshine—sun that dances on snowy slopes, ricochets off chiselled glaciers and sky-high peaks. Lands right in my eye. This is what I’ve been missing!
In the distance I can see the Coast Mountains firmly anchored on the far shore, a counterweight to the lightness that fills me now. The valley below is still obscured by cloud but I am somewhere else. Standing here in full sunlight is invigorating—I feel restored, and realizing that I can access this wondrous place on any day of my choosing is just icing on the cake—that is, ruling out bad weather and uber-busy schedules. Having this awareness seems to be enough, though; I will hold it in my thoughts like a sanctuary candle, at least until the fog moves out.
