Today it rained. Not the soft drizzle that clears away as quickly as it came. Not the mists that the morning brings, beckoning water that the sun dries away. No. Today it rained. Real, gushing, waves of it. Torrents from the sky, or should I say from the air. There is no sky today, only greys. No mistake to make between the heavens and the earth. It all came together, one continuous, expansive mist. The one that blankets everything, equally. The one that makes Christmas out of trees, little gossamer drops clinging ever so delicately to the branches. Glittering in all its natural glory. The mist that dims, creates gradations between me and the mountains and the mountains beyond those. The one that shrouds houses, conceals power lines, paints the trees ever so slightly in that off-white, that subtle gray, grayer than the last, until all there is is grayness. Gradations of gray. Skies and ground and landscapes of gray.
And the mist dances! Dances in the wind. Like giants, marching across the grass. Gusts of it, ephemeral men and women, making their way. Bodies of mist, emboldened and awesome forms. Standing, swaying, swirling, reifications. It moves in bolts. In whispers. Moves like the Rite of Spring. Eager, chaotic, tentative, stable. All of these things in the misty forms. Moving before me. Fast, the tiny vortices and evanescent spirals, slow, the giants, trudging against the storm. As I sit alone, under the sacred tree, all alone in the great greys. The only person who dares be outside in this magnificent storm. As if I’m the only person who can see it. The only person aware of this theater of ghosts.
I only really feel alive in the greys. My mood is never incongruent with the mist. It always feels like the world understands me when it storms; like it matches my intensity, nuance. There’s something endlessly empty about sunny days, something boring and vacant. Gloomy days articulate something inside of me. The sound of the rain, the sound of the wind, the way it makes things dance, the way it paints the sky between me and the trees, the way it brings life. It’s all so intense, so moving. And nuanced too, little sounds everywhere, that subtle patter, tin-tin on the roof, and the music of streams, gurgling and trickling over every crevice. Expanding out, thinning over rocks and concrete and the great plateau of our balcony, the stillness in between the thunderous roar. Closing in and gushing outwards again, down the driveway, rivers. Whoosh! White noise from white mist. An entire symphony of sounds. And that air that tousles; jostling leaves, orchestrating the rain that pours, that dances before it touches the ground. Animating the world around me in every direction.
The noon sun is harsh. It creates distinctions, highlighting the differences in everything. Bright, bright, lines. The afternoon sun is subtler, painting with roses and pinks, strokes from the same maker, the same intention, same design. Everything graced with that golden glow. Faces look best at that hour. The world looks best. The world as we were meant to see it, romantic, soft. Sun is not all bad, but the noon sun, the world in that glaring, bright light, that is a harsh reality.
The mist smoothes over distinctions -- it is a different kind of romantic. The somber kind, the cozy kind, the kind with depth and longing and nostalgia. It paints greys the way the golden hour paints roses. It makes everything look the same, turns the bright red leaves to deep amber, the once intense greens to misty greys. It’s atmospheric. You can’t help but be taken in by its repose. The way it calls to you to look out while you’re inside, with a dim fire and a warm drink. The way it calls you outside, under that great tree. The way it invites you to see it, to partake in its great mystery. Mists everywhere, sheets of rain, little round raindrops clinging to power lines, crawling along and falling off slowly, patters on the railing, ripples on the ground. Raindrops that contain the whole world. You, that contains all that is there. The mist, that contains you and the vast expanse of everything beyond. And you can hardly take it in, because it is so vast. And that is what is beautiful about it anyways. You can see the vastness, see how the greys encompass distance, see how there is space, but in a comfortable way, in that way that feels like home. It is safe when there is mist. Tentative, quiet, warmth.