The entire weekend was a shroud of fog and rain, a lazy prelude to the looming holidays. It is hard to take a camera out in this weather, mostly because one would prefer a blanket and black cat to stay warm. But the mundane world is transformed into wonderland for those with the initiative to venture forth.
Eschewing the trappings of a cozy house, I go out. The mist scrapes the hills, tingles my face, and hugs the ground of our little park. Formerly the tidal wetlands of our great bay, wetness is the park's natural condition. This time of year it feels like a soggy kitchen sponge when walking on it. Soon there will be signs that tell us to keep off the grass until summer. I don't find the grass to be pleasant at all. Once my feet are wet the day seems lost.
I often long for the faraway places of my imagination. Then a gentle storm comes in and makes my nearby world a place of mystery—my imagination is fulfilled. I have always been drawn towards weather's magnet of energy, the wilder the better. But this particular gentle storm allows me to stand still in fog and rain and to simply look, as if I were seeing for the first time.
Soon, my feet get wet and the black cat and blanket prove irresistible. But, before I leave the soggy park, I find a sweet image of a row of saplings. I make an image.