In October, I stocked up on pumpkin butter from Trader Joe’s and have since spooned it into thumbprint cookies, spread it over toast, or savored it with a nibble of goat cheese. This morning, I scraped the last of it, and stirred it into my oatmeal. As I ate, I stared at the fog, tranced. In need of waking. Passages from the book I’m reading, Cold Mountain wove through the space in my skull. Here they are, pair them with Waiting Game by Banks
“He flapped again at the flies and looked out the window at the first smear of foggy dawn and waited for the world to begin shaping up outside.”
“Ribbons of fog moved low on the ground though the sky was clear overhead.”
“At first, all she liked about the reading spot was the comfortable chair and the good light, but over the months she came to appreciate that the window’s view offered some relief against the strain of such bleak stories, for when she looked up from the page, her eyes swept across the fields and rose on waves of foggy ridges to the blue bulk of Cold Mountain.”
“Morning broke to fog, but its brightness announced that it would burn off quickly.”
I’ve only just begun the book. 60 pages in, and four descriptions of fog cry out to me. This is why I love to read; It makes me take more notice.
May something fall into your day that stirs you.
wave parade 