A walk in the fogLondon, ON
February 2009
I live in the London that gets no attention or respect, the so-called "Other London" that is always followed by an explanation. "The one in Canada," "No, not that British one," "The sleepy little burg two hours west of Toronto."
Often in conversation, folks will express surprise that I don't have a British accent, or that the phone connection sounds great for a transatlantic call. That's when I know it's time to fess up and admit that my life is a lot less glamorous than they had been led to believe.
No matter, though, as our quiet, mid-sized town has just enough of the real London in it. We have a Thames River, a street grid with names like Oxford, Adelaide, Dundas, Queens and King, and thanks to some really lousy geography, fog. Lots of it.
Fairly regularly, we wake up to a pea soup world that, just like a massive snowstorm, kids love and adults hate. I used to just grumble and hope it would burn off by the time school and work rolled around, but eventually I stopped whining about the minor inconveniences like incompetent drivers (hint: slow down, turn on your lights, put the cell phone down and pay attention to what's going on around you) and a dog who wouldn't leave the house because his neighborhood looked completely surreal (solution: I started carrying him to the corner.)
A foggy morning offers a brief opportunity to shoot the world as it's rarely seen, to experience a time when everything slows down and goes quiet. If it falls during the week, I don't have a lot of time to play with; usually just enough for a quick walkabout before I rejoin the fam for the daily morning crunch. But I'm learning that sometimes we need to take the time regardless. Because before long, the fog's gone and what made the moment special quickly fades into the past.
Something tells me I may have stumbled onto a metaphor for life.
Your turn: Taking the time, even if you don't really have the time to spare. Please discuss.
