Lost in the Fog

I'm stranded on a remote island near the North Channel... No really, I am.  I woke up this morning to a thick white blanket of fog, engulfing the entire expanse of the surrounding waters and distant shores.  Okay, stranded might be a small stretch of the imagination, considering I hadn't really planned on leaving the island anytime soon anyway.  But the reality of the preventive conditions remain; even if I wanted to leave, I simply couldn't until the fog has lifted.    

It is quite eery to sit here along the harbor's edge and not be able to see beyond the shoreline.  Somewhere, echoing upon the surface of the lake, is the murmuring rumble of a presumably small engine.  I have no real gage of where it is coming from, or for that matter, where it is going: as everything if muffled by the enclosing fog.  

As I thumb through the index of my mind, a great inventory of memories emerge from my very own precarious condition: the 'thick-as-soup' mental fog that engulfs a few dozen great shipwrecks of the past.  I sing to myself a haunted old tune of a fog horn whistle blowing Into the Mystic. 

I don't even know where that little tune has been hiding all these years... 

Just as soon as I disappear momentarily Into the Mystic, I am encountered by a very inquisitive snake.  Yes, that was a literal statement, and not a metaphor...  Although I can plainly see the irony... 

This island has a way of bringing about thoughts and curiosities you may not have realized existed.  But I don't mind.  There's nowhere to go even if I did... 

The fog is lifting before my eyes, and I have come to realize a few benefits of immersing myself in the island experience.  Reflection, patience, stillness and surrender: this is what losing yourself to an island escape can procure.     

I realize that I can flip through the index of my mind and feel perfectly at ease.  The fog has lifted there too, and it's a comforting feeling to be able to see clearly once again.  I can rest assured that safe passage is now in sight, whenever I choose.  

That snake is hanging out on the other side of the deck, just sunning himself and enjoying warmth of what promises to be another beautiful day.  

When I do leave this island, I will be faced with a few difficult decisions.  My summer in northern Michigan is coming to an end.  And my time served behind the bar is nearly up... for now. 

To be lost in the fog isn't such a bad thing.  I have lost my sense of time, of worry and even correctly catalogued a few misplaced memories.  

In fact, I've created a new folder where I insert all the memories that used to make me sad.  I'm no longer sad singing that song.  I can't recall when the sorrow lifted; it's a little foggy. 

But I do know one thing for sure: the best chance for survival is to momentarily surrender to the elements and patiently wait for the fog to lift... because when it does, as it most certainly will, it will be time to set sail into the great unknown.  

Sometimes the greatest gift of being lost in the fog is the inability to to see beyond wherever you stand; forcing you to close your eyes, look within and just be right where you are at this very moment in time.  

Today:

Gilligan's Island

1 oz Vodka

1/2 oz Peach Schnapps 

Equal parts Orange and Cranberry Juice

The fog this morning...

Sneaky Snake...

Finally able to see.