Outside my window, on this January morning, the world is gray and black. A thick fog obscures the horizon, veiling everything but the foreground in gray. Shaggy cedar trees, their branches blackly etched against the sliding mists, lumber skyward.

In the distance, the honking of invisible geese echoes through the fog.

And yet, yesterday afternoon, I was out walking by the lake near my house with the fog thick and white all around me. From the inside, a fog isn’t foggy at all. Instead, it’s soft, drizzly, welcoming-like a dog’s tongue, it lapped my face with tenderness.

Sitting here at my desk, the fog returns to mystery. But I remember its touch, and it no longer seems utterly Other. More friendly than forbidding.

I remember the first time I met fog, on a winter morning in a hill station in India. That moment when I stepped out of the front door into its embrace. Its silky caress on my face, my hands. Cool, fine drizzle. Green scent of wet trees, earth, mist.

Magic.

The unknown is like that. Forbidding until you enter it. And then, even though you can’t see its contours, or the landscape it veils, you can feel its friendliness. Feel the welcome it offers. Experience the thrill of the promise it holds.

What fog beckons you into its arms today? Will you go out to meet it?

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