Raining today. I bundled up and traded the walking stick for an umbrella. The fog gave the walk an ethereal quality: sort of like trying to read some French philosopher like Sartre or Foucault; you know what they are writing is important, but the text is too dense to comprehend.
But walking in fog is more than that. It gives a mysterious, sinister quality to the walk. What lies ahead? Yes, I've walked this walk more than a hundred times--but it still seems unreal. Every step a new step for Allan.
And then back home. Oh, to have a woodstove to warm me after a wet and foggy walk! I can smell the smoke from a few neighbors. What they are burning, I can't tell, but it smells sweet. Someday very soon, I hope to return from a wet walk with a warm woodstove glowing. A place for the dog to dry off and plop down in front of. A place to dry socks, mittens, shoes, jackets. With some sweet smelling wood burning. Glowing. Warming.