As 2018 is coming to a close, Kyle and I are settling into our newest layover spot: Ingram, TX. The hill country is not your average stereotypical Texas—no giant desert or sprawling cattle farms here. His mom’s house is nestled into a quiet neighborhood with a back porch overlooking a beautiful valley of Live Oak, shrubs, small cliff sides, and gorgeous sunrises. A rainbow of color greeted us yesterday morning, from deep purples to electric oranges, and today we were treated to a full on blanket of gray. The heavy cloud covered everything, making our morning meditation seem that much smaller, cozy even. With eyes closed and focus on the breath, I assumed I was residing in the dark. Yet when the fur baby Winnie whined, I realized how much brighter everything instantly was a mere half hour later. As the earth slowly rotated and our magnificent sun came more into view, I started to wonder at the mist-ery. The mist is lifting, evaporating, gliding, moving, shifting and dancing around the tree tops with the increase of warmth and light. In this witness state of how air moves, my eyes seem to be taking in an alternative sensory experience. Normally, I feel wind on my skin or against our car; I watch trees or birds move with air; I notice patterns in the sky or dirt on the ground be carried by wind. Yet, mist is entirely different. This floating river of moisture is entirely weightless to the eye, but the physical nature is that fog is indeed weighted, heavy and dense. Looking over this valley, the fog is carried down a stream of lighter currents until she surrenders to the sunlight. This mercy of the fog, to be taken over so completely, to eliminate her power of obstructing the view, to fade into soft peaches and bright whites until the gray is no longer recognizable and is suddenly gone—it is such a sweet victory for her to let the sun take her away. In her vulnerability to the light, she who was once the shadowy dew accepts her powerlessness and offers her entirety to the grandfather sun.

The sun doesn’t rise. It is an optical illusion that the sun is moving around our sphere. Similarly, the fog doesn’t lift. She is carried away, her weight and color all together lighter. The sun patiently burns off anything that is holding her down so that she may rise and clear and open the view to the wonders of mother nature surrounding me. Two deer that I swear to goddess look straight out the casting call from Bambi are nibbling goodies from the ground. Cacti and Yucca points start to pierce into view. Birds and birds and birds chirp and torpedo from tree to tree.

My spirit is an early morning fog. My prayers to Spirit are the sunrays en-Lightening her.

Each day, with Trust, the light shatters the confusion or doubt or terror that is the human condition of Forgetting. Each day, with Trust, I know I am capable of Remembering.

Oneness. The fog is now one with the rest of the air. Hints of her past existence drip from the rooftops, or cling to my mat, waiting to be totally seduced by the sun until she is but a memory of the early morning.

My constitutions are primarily Air and Fire. Gemini-Leo-Leo, Pitta-Vata, and on she goes. They are my soul’s dominant elements, well, certainly in this lifetime. The sun and the air have such a love affair, and taking notice of them around me is a simple way to reconnect to the mystery.

This is the Improbable Reality