Fog is thick here in Western North Carolina, like walking around in a cloud. The mountains have disappeared and trees grow only so high before vanishing. Muted voices and sounds of nature have an eerie, blanketed quality.
I'm not a fan of fog. Maybe I think too much of how awful it is to drive in. Maybe it's just too creepy. Maybe it's too secretive.
Some of my feelings about fog are echoed in my feelings about high mountains. The high, deep, dark mountains surrounding Asheville are the kind of mountains I'm not partial to. They're beautiful, but they hide too much for me. Too many nooks and crannies and hollows and thickets and crags and caves and dark. Mountains make me think of secrets.
When we moved to Illinois, the openness mesmerized me. Nothing hidden from view or secluded, unless the corn was high, but even that was orderly, bright and temporary. Watching lightening race across the sky, from horizon to horizon caused open-mouthed awe. Leaving that openness on our trips back to Tennessee made me love and relish the dark, deep mountains --for a while.
Now, our home in Georgia provides some of both and I love the happy medium.
Even more? I love that I had the opportunity to experience the difference and find what soothes my soul.
So why do I fight being in uncomfortable situations? Aren't they just providing a painters' palette on which to find what I really like? really want? Who I really am?
Are your hard situations serving as a palette or a torture rack?