The Fog
The following short story is part of a three part series I wrote for my own inner explorations inspired by Patti Digh’s structured writing practice.
I use this creative therapeutic writing personally and in my work with others as a way to befriend obstacles and transform them into light flickers meant to guide us more fully into ourselves.
Once upon a time, there was a thick fog blanketing a dark and mysterious land.
A young woman lived here, curled inside a blanket of twisty green moss, nestled up against a cold gray rock. Each time she opened her eyes to see all that is true, she was greeted by the fog, swiftly hitting her with a wave of dizziness and exhaustion. So, most days she stumbled through the darkness, blindly trying to find her way from here to somewhere. She wasn't sure where she was going or what she was looking for, only sensing she was not supposed to stay here.
Every day she wandered through the dark, her hands guiding as they traced their way through the landscape.
It was slow. She wondered if she was going in circles - losing track of the way each tree, branch, pebble felt in her palms. As forest shapes blended together, she lost the differences that might guide her into somewhere new. She tried to squint her eyes open, but the dizzying fog slammed through the tiny crack, leaving her unconscious on the forest floor.
But one day she had enough.
She was tired of being stuck, tired of going around and around in circles and loops. She knew there was more, she felt herself being pulled in some direction by something inside. And so she grappled blindly through the forest until she found the nearest tree, her fingers tracing the moist textured bark. It felt solid and scratchy and she wrapped her arms tightly around it, pressing her chest and belly into its trunk. She yelled to the fog - “I’m willing to see what is here. Show me now!” She took a deep breath, held on tightly to the tree and slowly opened her eyes.
Because of that, the fog rushed in, stealing her breath away.
Her lungs collapsed as she willed her body to hang on tight, pleading with her eyelids to stay open. “I need to see, stop taking me away. . . there is something I need to see.” She knew the fog was simply trying to protect her. Or possibly trying to scare her away. Maybe both. She stayed, clinging to the tree, her fingers digging deeply into the crevices of the bark as the fear and pain of suffocation washed over her.
Because of that the fog grew stronger, testing her resolve.
It made the world spin, faster, and faster, trying to fling her from the tree. It inhaled deeply, sucking the exhale from her body and capturing it in its mist, keeping her inbreath hostage and just out of reach. Still, she held on tight. “I am willing to see what is here. I am willing to stay.”
Until finally the fog relented slightly.
Through the thick heaviness, it revealed one tiny image. It was the image of a child who had been beaten, drugged, and tortured. This child was abandoned in the streets, left for dead. The woman sobbed, inhaling jaggedly as she peered into the eyes of this little one, seeing the pain and agony this being was in. The child was too weak to look back.
Ever since then, the woman meets this child, wanting to see.
She whispers . . .”I see you. I see you hurting. I see your dark deep eyes, the faint spark, surrounded by all that has tried to extinguish it. I see your bruises, your cuts, your sore places. I hear your heart beating. I see you. You matter. I am here.” And the image of the girl, her story, and the pieces that have been hidden from view, continue allowing themselves to be known, held, grieved, and loved.
References
Digh, Patty. (2008). Life is a Verb