I  lay in bed this morning and knew that outside the window deep into the Winter bound garden that the  Willow trees bent, close to snapping, brittle with ice and the pair of robins that habitually grace the patch of grass beneath the Sumac tree were already waiting for a fresh dusting of oatmeal that I sprinkle out at least twice a day. I lay in bed nonetheless and listened intently to a new sound  that emanated from the bay to the south of the house. It took me a few minutes to realise that it was the sound of a foghorn, a haunting, hopeful, romantic sound that only a fog horn can bring.

I can't recall the last time I heard a foghorn. This bothers me. I rack my brains but nothing comes to mind. But, this morning, the first sound I was lucky to encounter stayed with me all day. It gave a rhythm to this Saturday. It gave pace, because it dictated to me a meditation of sorts, my tempo was put in order, my addled brain fell into the mantra, the repetition of peace. 

The foghorn speaks to me of regularity and lost souls seeking the way, the right direction home or forward or, as it is so often when, you have nowhere else to turn. It conjures hope and  possibility when all seems to be confused. It spoke out to me today and soothed the questions that daunt my mind. After that, I mean, when the fog horn ceased, the day went beautifully. I navigated my way through the hours in an extraordinary blissful state. I encountered so many magical moments that came upon me without effort. It was like a fog lifted in my mind, the grey shroud that blocked my vision and I came to see all that the day had to bring and there was nothing at all to stop me and I kept walking on into other human beings that gifted me with small mercies, smiles, tokens and light and other things that they were not even aware of.