The Singing Fog
Being in the garden on a foggy morning is
the nearest thing a singer who cannot sing can come to singing; or a composer
who cannot compose can come to composing.
Fog is as lavish with softness, with intensity and with intimacy as a song is
lavish with sound, or music is lavish with melody.
It is as though God took you to an exclusive restaurant. He has ordered the
menu, he is cook and waiter and host. He is at your table, the wine glistens on
leaf and twig and blade and spider's web. It glistens on your hair and sparkles
on your woollen coat. Your rubber boots shine black and your green gloves drip
diamonds.
God has dressed you from his own boutique. Fog is your halo, drawing from earth
and sky and vaporised sunshine everything you need to nourish the peace.
The conversation of God is the calm and the stillness of the grass; his
orchestra the hush of birdsong, the song of silence pausing before the encore.
You become the fog because God has come down and written you in. Now you are
composer and singer and God waits to be entertained by you.
Make yourself ready, your introduction has been played.
He is the audience who applauds when you whisper, 'Father, allow me to see you
in whatever form you come to me. Give to me the song of your unfailing
presence.'
And he signs the program and hands it to you on centre stage saying 'I have
parted the heavens and come down; I have touched the mountains and they have
poured forth smoke.'
You turn it over to read what he has written:
'May my teaching fall like raindrops, my words distil like dew, like fine
rain on tender grass' Deuteronomy 32:2. (REB)
Elizabeth Price