THIS SUNDAY MORNING felt insulated as if I was walking through a cloud. The low lying mist so common during West Coast winters muffled footsteps and the voices of people strolling along the Crescent Beach shore.
Everyone huddled a little like this bird. Moisture from the mist touched our faces and life seemed to soften around the edges.
It was as if I had been pulled into a pencil drawing of delicate muted strokes. Every step brought me closer to color, though, and assured me there was much to be found within the eerie blank horizon.
It felt cozy and safe with the focus on what was in front of me without seeing too far ahead into the foggy future. Sometimes mist settles in a heavy shroud but on Sunday it wrapped around me gently like a fuzzy cloud shawl.
And despite the blurry start to my day I am compelled to quote from an old proverb that says, "A misty morning does not signify a cloudy day."
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