It is the first morning of our time in the mountains. I awake early to commune with my beloved mountains; these mountains that feed my spirit and renew my soul.

Alas, there are no mountains this day. The fog so thick even the dominant ridge that demarks the land from the sky is hidden. The fog is heavy from above. Light from below. The fog low in the valley rises and hides the nearby rooftops and trees that were visible just moments ago. The fog blankets me and forces me inside as it sweeps even onto our balcony. It floats, dances, twirls past the window rising ever upward. Gossamer yet strong. Teasing yet determined.

The birds pierce the silence brought by the fog. Their song continues in preparation for the day. The birds do not mind the fog.

Far away in the valley we hear the flow of water. The never-ending waterfalls cascade to the valley floor untouched by the fog. The waterfalls provide assurance the mountains are still there.

Then a distant sound of one cowbell.

The birds, the waterfalls, the cowbell. All is well in the mountains. All will emerge from the fog to welcome us. We wait.

This deep, dancing fog greeted us the morning of our last day in the mountains two years ago. It blocked our last image of the valley and the village forcing us to leave with only the memories of earlier days when the canvas before our eyes was perfectly displayed. We left reluctantly missing that last look, that last anchor in memory.

It is as if we returned to that same day. To witness the unfolding of that day and continue the deep renewal of spirit. As if the two years in between were a wrinkle in time.

I am home again.

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Janet S. Dieman, Copyright 2008