Fog of Sanctuary

 

Late November leading into early December the air around us seemed to have something in it, a new presence. The air was no longer invisible. Particles coated in the thinnest of gossamer sheaths of cold, gathered and created this shimmering grey white blanket of fog floating, or rather hanging.. not in the air, it filled the air, it was the air. 

Still. No wind. Only me moving through freezing water all around me. Stroking my eyes, my cheeks, even my teeth. Tiny beads and droplets find resting places on my beard. There’s cold creeping in between the layers of my clothing with every step, with every move.

And there’s a taste. Faint, delicate and only just detectable on the tongue. But it’s there, tantalising and teasing. Then it hits with the memory of frozen lakes high up in the mountains, high up in the silence of the sky, high up so the ice and cold clashes with the bright dazzling light of the sun that looks as if it could be touched. It’s as if the cold has carried this flavour straight from the heights a whole ‘nother world far away. 

But this cold has descended alone. Grey and silver in that stillness that somehow manages to cut out the noise of birds, the drone of cars, the hum of the world. 

A thought crosses my mind. I’m at home in this cold blanket of still. At home with the emptiness and hollow that surrounds me. It’s a comfort right now. Staring into the grey my heartbeat is slow, relaxed and there is joy in watching my exhaled breath dance into the cold moisture and disappear into the grey white curtain of mist.

The thought has taken another step.

‘Is this what nothing looks like? Feels like?’

Perhaps.

Colin Stevens

Image by Artem Sapegin