As I drove to work the fog rolled in. It was fascinating watching it surround me with its curling tendrils. It wasn’t thick once I was in it, no knuckle gripping the wheel about to panic driving blind, but the clear vision of driving into and through the misty morning. It was an exquisite moment.
I remember once when we were driving a mountain road in New Zealand, and low cloud descended and surrounded us. It was one of the most magical moments I have ever experienced as it was like entering another realm. If I were a writer of fantasy I could have so easily imagined tree sprites and ethereal maidens lurking in the forest on either side of that mountain road. Sadly, the road peaked and we descended into sunlight.
My drive to work wasn’t quite so enthralling. A concrete freeway is a long way from a mountain forest road. The school was shrouded in mist as I parked my car and walked into the library. There were no students yet and few teachers, and as I walked into the library I could still inhale the scent of fresh paint, even though the library has been open for six months now. I love that scent.
When I worked in the university library and opened the doors in the morning, the scent of old books would greet me and I thought that was the greatest perfume of all, but now I work in a new library of vibrant colours and energetic youth, and somehow the scent of fresh paint has come to symbolise all the promise of that youth, and all our hopes for their futures, and ours.
Pure, unadulterated joy. Mine, all mine.