This morning when I drove to work, the marine layer still hadn’t receded entirely. I live about 6 miles from the beach, with hills and valleys in between, so when that dense foggy haze lingers, you can see it settle into the crevices of the landscape–here there will be clear air, and just down that ridge, there will be the heavy blanket of moisture. Blue skies one minute, grey the next. You can see these bowls of clouds hanging in these pockets of land and they look like they have weight, like they have substance that you could reach out and grab handfuls of like cotton batting if you got close enough.
I prefer the days where my commute gives me clear skies and a limitless view of the ocean, where I come up over this one hill and the Pacific opens up at my feet, and the blue (or gray, or black, depending on the time of day and the light) water reaches out to the edge of the world. Those views are like a deep cleansing breath to my soul.
But the hazy days, the days of the thick gray cottony substance, those settle on me. Not in a negative way, oh not a negative way. It’s much like the comforting weight of a heavy blanket as you drift off to sleep, that feeling of being insulated and cocooned by something. It’s less like an impending thunderstorm, and more like the air as a thunderstorm is clearing out–moist, cool, with a little weight left from the clouds but with a relaxed feeling in the air from the clearing away that the rain brings.
I’ve lived here five years, and I still don’t take the air or the ocean for granted. This place soothes me, and the beauty and peace I find in being surrounded by….all this…in all its forms is a blessing that I am grateful for.
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