Yesterday, I went for the most wonderful walk. The fog was heavy over the lake, and I could only see ten feet in front of me, the ghostly branches of familiar trees guiding the way. I set out just before sunrise and soon disappeared into the white nothingness.
What is so enchanting about the fog? Maybe it’s the mystery; it makes well-trodden paths almost unrecognizable, presenting them anew. Maybe it’s the solitude; even if others are around, you can’t see them. Or maybe it’s the surrender; you have to give yourself up to it, not knowing what’s ahead beyond your own feet, though it’s not often the doom you may fear.
Once I’d completed my usual loop, it dawned on me suddenly: My legs weren’t numb. They weren’t tingling. I felt normal for the first time in many, many months. Normal! So I continued walking, enjoying the fog, the sun rising above the trees barely visible through it, a platinum orb hovering in the mist.
I returned to my car feeling revitalized, bits of cloud clinging to my hat and scarf like spun sugar. Save a few exceptions, I feel now very much like I did at this time last year, in those sweet final moments before MS became part of my daily life. Progress, especially since my summer relapse, has been so slow, but here I am finally seeing it. I’m getting stronger, measurably so.
I had hardly pulled away from the park before the fog disappeared behind my car, crisp blue skies opening ahead. Of course, they had been there the whole time; I just couldn’t see them until they were right upon me.