The field and shed, summer morning, 2017.
“Over the vistas broke a cold gray light, such as seen in those false dawns that are neither night nor true morning, when the world and all its contents seem but shapes of mist…” –KW Jeter
A spectacular fog.
There’s a special beauty found in mist, fog, rain. Maybe that’s why I love England so much? I’m definitely an introvert besotted with what others might call dreary weather. But I love the moody, misty moors of Jane Eyre & Wuthering Heights. Pathetic fallacy, perhaps?
And words tied to that weather & aesthetic charm me. Words like pluviophile and petrichor, gloaming and chrysalism, stillicide and creosote.
A mist creates an eerie atmosphere.
Things introverts do on brooding rainy days appeal to me, too. Sitting in silence, absorbing the sounds and scent of the rain, curling up with a blanket and book, sipping hot tea or coffee with a cat in the lap, watching the glow of candles or a fire burning in the hearth.
One of my favorite votive holders, in an owlish nook.
Sometimes, we need to slow down, sit, and just enjoy the sad kind of beauty found in mists and fogs, in drizzles and showers, in the pitter-patter of Nature’s orchestral rhythm.
“Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?” – Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle