The last couple of mornings, I have awakened to the sound of rain, my brain slowly becoming aware of the gentle patter on the windows before I dragged my eyelids open. I love rain. I love its peaceful rhythm, its way of making my world seem cozy and small. And while I always have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, a pearly grey rainy morning convinces me that hitting snooze again – and again – and again – is a great idea. The rain curtains off the outside world, and my bed is warm and snuggly, and who wants to leave such coziness?
This morning, I finally pulled myself out of bed and hurriedly dressed my un-showered body. I was running late for work. But the peacefulness of the misty-rain kept my spirit calm as I hit the road. I turned my radio off, wanting no interruption to this quiet.
The highway seemed foggy in the clouded morning light. Looking closer, I realized it wasn’t fog at all, but a light spray coming off the wet road under the friction of speeding tires. What has friction to do with peaceful misty mornings?
Crossing over the river, I looked off the bridge to my right – out across the unseen water to the wooded hills. True fog, that beautifully mysterious mountain mist, ribboned its way around the trees. Glory!
My soul was whisked away from the grimy city to my favorite haunts of the Blue Ridge Mountains. My roots lie in those old mountains. Memories of childhood, ancestry of faith – ancestry both physical and spiritual. Steeped in prayer, in beauty, in imagination and play.
I found myself singing, my voice taking on the old folksy timbre I cultivated in my Nashville years:
“In my mind, I’m gone to Carolina. Can’t you see the sunshine? Can’t you just feel the moonshine? Ain’t it just like a friend of mine, to hit me from behind? Yes, I’m gone to Carolina in my mind.”
I awoke from my reverie when I hit the construction zone.
Ah, well. Starting the day with such peace, remembering my roots, stayed with me through the day. There’s nothing quite like a misty morning.