The Fog

Staying steady when everything seems to disappear

Friends, I hope that this Sunday evening finds you taking good care and bolstering yourself in any way you must against the darker, chilly evenings of mid-November, giving yourself permission to seek pleasure in whatever wells of nourishment and delight that you can find.

For my part, I took a beautiful walk around Boston this afternoon, drinking in the sights of trees still on fire with fall colors (crimsons, golds, orange sherbets) and the last few fuchsia roses stubbornly hanging on before the holidays hit. As I write, wrapped in a newly acquired shawl, a candle burns, audaciously disrupting the dimness of my desk, and my stomach growls in reply to the smell of a pot roast, carrots, celery, and a symphony of herbs coming together in the slow cooker. When I’m finished with this post, I will roast a few potatoes to go alongside the roast to make it a proper autumn feast. A hot shower and a small cup of homemade cocoa are to come as well. I’m greedy for any tiny bit of comfort and sweetness I might offer myself this night.

A few of the gorgeous hues spotted on my daily walk

I’ve gone and tried something different for this week’s newsletter: a video recording of me reading one of my favorite poems, The Fog, from my collection Wild Unfolding. After I read the poem, I share a handful of thoughts I’ve collected, like sea glass on the beach, about what it means to be in a fog, whether it be literal or metaphorical. I’ve had plenty of experience in both. I have a feeling you do, too.