We have big dreams, you and I. We wade out into the bog with our eyes closed to the mist and wonder what those dreams want of us. The mist envelopes our senses and seeps into our skin, keeping us confused, pulling us further into possibilities of what might be, if. The fog is thick with wondering.
Our hopes whisper and dance and ask us to do something, yet we still wonder, still we hesitate, still we peer through the fog and look for a clearer way. Somehow we know that the way is here in this swampy place. Even though the mist and the fog are what we see and feel. Even though the fog is thick, and we can’t get our bearings.
When we breathe, the air is heavy and thick with moisture. We can see water droplets swimming before us, and we sense that a version of truth is inside each one. Right here, ready to be inhaled when we can breathe deeply enough to be the mist. When we can agree to the possibilities of what might be, if. When we can see that the present; the fog and the mist, are part of the story.
Perhaps we can wade into the bog and let the uncertainty of the times lead us to the truth than needs to speak.
Perhaps we can let the fog and the haze be the way forward.
Perhaps we can remember how to to perceive differently than we thought we would need to.
Perhaps we can breathe in and out, as one with the whispers of maybe as they evolve into what is.