Years ago, the one time I visited the Grand Canyon, there was a sign at the entrance to the park reading:
FOG IN CANYON
The drive north from Flagstaff had proven interesting. February at 7000 feet means snow, and lots of it, but we soldiered through, stopping only to check on the status of the snowplow driver who had gone off the road (he was fine, if embarrassed). It wasn’t simply determination–we couldn’t find a place to turn around that wasn’t also an invitation to join the snowplow on the DL.
So we drove into the park. We saw the fog right away, or the top of the fog at any rate. The canyon was full of it. The sun emerged fully from behind the mountains to the southeast, and the fog moved. It swirled, lifted, and turned upon itself, climbing out from between the walls, and within a minute, we could see the North Rim. The low sun cast shadows on lagging bits of fogbank in the corners of the canyon below. The surfaces of the cloud there was smooth enough for us to spot our own magnified shadows, hundreds of yards away, a glowing nimbus around each. A few feet away, a raven croaked oracular. I waited for the epiphany.
I suppose I’m still waiting. But the past ten days have felt pretty good. Uncertainty becomes foresight. Thoughts that had spun around in my mind inchoate for weeks have been finding niches to perch on, and now regard me with mounting impatience: Write me down, you dingbat.
The next few weeks are going to be busy. New house, old house, packing, moving. But somewhere in there, writing.
I feel like some now.