I haven’t posted anything since the election. Frankly, it’s been hard to think of what to write in the wake of the devastating results.
Others have put forth some of their best work in response to the election. Masha Gessen’s widely praised piece, Autocracy: Rules for Survival, laid the groundwork for how we adjust to and fight back in this new world. Umair Haque, as usual, has written some beautiful, if heart-wrenching, pieces about what we have lost and what lies ahead. Many, many others have published equally shattering, comprehensive articles that capture the full extent of our predicament and itemize our responsibilities if we ever hope to emerge from it. I will let those articles do the talking for now.
For myself, I finally took the time to clear my head and to appreciate what the election left unaltered. Getting outside, away from the distractions of my phone and computer was what I needed.
Today’s forecast called for heavy fog, so I woke up early on this Sunday morning and drove to Theodore Wirth Park to see what I could capture.
I arrived just as the fog descended on Wirth Lake. I was virtually the only person at the park, and the solitude combined with the thick fog resulted in an eerie stage like something out of a horror film.
A light frost lingered on browning plants and trees, which lent an exceptionally harsh feel to the entire scene.
It’s hard to overstate just how dense the fog was. When I arrived, I could still see across the lake. Half an hour later, this floating dock — not 30 yards away — was difficult to make out.
I spent about two hours wandering around the lake, diverting down the smaller paths that splinter off the main route. Every turn revealed a new, haunting panorama.
This slow, meandering morning was what I needed to think — of important things and of nothing in particular. I imagine we’ll all need more mornings like this in the years to come.
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