It was nearly 70 degrees in Chicago yesterday, not a typical temperature for December, and the unusual reading on the thermometer stirred up a mixed reaction. Part of me felt like hosting an inner rant about global warming, and part of me wanted to take a long walk or bike ride, very mindful that more normal temperatures will return soon and it will be months before I can go outside without wearing a jacket that makes me look like the Michelin Tire Man.

The strange mixture of warm temperatures with high humidity brings about an inescapable, attention demanding phenomena. Fog. I used to joke about such days, days that were defined by their limited visibility. I called them When dinosaurs roamed the earth days. When I would see the tops of skyscrapers poke through thick layers of condensation, I could envision slow-moving over-sized, long-necked reptiles taking giant steps while keeping their heads above the sulfurous ground, resigned to the painfully slow pace of things.

If you don’t have to get to anywhere fast, fog can be quite compelling. It is, at the same time, dangerous and harmless. The way it makes the dark and fragile branches of bare trees look like Spanish lace demonstrates its power as a poet’s muse. Yet, it can wreak havoc where it settles. Fog blinds, swallows, and deadens things in its path. It is responsible for canceled flights and bridge accidents. And to think, it’s only water.

On the subject of fog, Carl Sandberg wrote:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Fog is transitory. It is a readily identifiable condition that we all understand passes. People associate fog with mental states; with confusion, anxiety, frustration, feeling stuck. We don’t always seem to believe these states are temporary, like fog. But they are.

If I don’t need to get anywhere and have space in my life for reflection, fog is great. It encourages stillness. Foggy days are made for reading in a favorite chair, or for taking walks in familiar places (where navigation is not even an afterthought).

Yesterday, I used the fog as an invitation for contemplation. I asked myself if there were things in my life that I didn’t want to see or didn’t want to look at. Nothing came up as a situation I was turning a blind eye towards, although I welcomed the prompt.

Then I looked out from the back window of my house. I spied a few brownish leaves that escaped the rake’s claws. The back of the garage, a barely yellow structure not thirty feet from our back door, seemed to have lost its edges, being secured inside the cloud flowing through our alley. Even though it was warm, it felt like winter had arrived. I decided I wanted to be inside doing inside things.

I love contrast. I love the way fog makes me aware of contrast. If there are no foggy days, times defined by restricted vision, it’s hard to appreciate those times when you’re operating with acute clarity. I think my first back porch al fresco meal next spring cannot help but be more delightful because of the upcoming months I will spend eating at my dining room table.

Remembering to appreciate contrast is no small thing.