The Gift Of Fog
By Soo Young Lee
Outside my window, the fog swallows the air around the red water tower. The crimson structure is rustic and timeless as if painted into my view. The fog also makes everything seem timeless –ancient or futuristic. Thankfully, the grey haze washes everything surreal. I crave this because I despise the mundane, and I find myself there too often.
I cope by fixating on wisps of magic. Driving my son to school, the fog delights a familiar landscape. The cows float legless in the clouds, the reeds look like fawn-colored flamingos, the tide blurs and bleeds monotone into the ocean. Layers and layers of muted tones stacked against the horizon. I hunt for everyday reminders to find meaning in existence. Ah-ha moments arrive in irregular flashes like lightning in a snowstorm, but the psyche begs to be attended to daily.
I attach to the fog because it contradicts and harmonizes without effort. It picks up light, creates shadows, highlights, and covers what is underneath.
The fog reminds us that where we are is not when we are. As I am making his breakfast, getting his lunch ready, and drinking tea, my 5-year-old asks me to grab a blanket and book for him that is within his reach. If I were grounded, I would see that he is a child who has come to equate love with someone doing everything for him. After a poor night’s sleep, however, I am hurled backwards in time to all those late nights making 1000 mandu dumplings for New Year’s Day while the men slept. I am propelled to all the sleepovers my older brother had while I was restricted after I got my period. I remember being spanked for fighting back with a pocketknife in my tube socks because three older boys were threatening me for being a “chink.”
They say when you have a child, you are reminded of everything you have not resolved. Last night as the fog put the birds to bed, I put my heart in my mouth. I asked my son why he was talking to his friend like he was his boss. He replied, “I needed to teach him about consequences.” I often wondered if his boldness ingested his empathy. Earlier, he threw his discarded socks and sweater at my body while I napped in a feverish slumber, recovering from a cold.
In Korean, I said to him you do so many things well, but I want you to broaden your mahum and think about how you may affect others. “Mahum” is the Korean word that means the emotional heart that encompasses feelings, decision making, and mindset.
Niko asked how big his heart was. I said about the size of a fist. Crying, he said that he wished his heart was bigger. “It has to be bigger,” he demanded. I said his imaginary and emotional heart was very big, and he could choose to make it bigger. My words meant nothing. The figurative and the literal are still merged in his mind.
I comforted him as he cried himself to sleep. Our mahum are so fickle. One moment we were sniffing each other’s hair and saying how sweet it smells. Then one statement can send us reeling into regression or anguish. The heart is unpredictable, violent, and charming.
What do I know of his motivations? Nothing. I can pay attention to what kinds of food he likes and doesn’t, but I have no right to interpret his actions into my own meaning. I will never be able to peer through his eyes and heart, no matter how closely we fall asleep.
Looking for blame makes us miss our mark every time. Finding fault is like saying the fog decided to blind the bird that hit the car’s windshield. Or decrying how the fog puts the morning road workers in danger by obscuring their bodies.
The fog can expand and highlight. The heart, the mahum can do this too. Our emotional perspective can shrink or expand the world around us. Magic, both dark and light, are everywhere. A child angry at his father can refuse to eat even though his belly gurgles with hunger. On his 7th birthday, a boy loses the ability to walk because his father disappeared again into his drinking. A ladybug found on a beach can come back to life after my son breaths hot air on it. A dense layer of fog can inspire a morning beach stroll that inspires random flotsam of contradictions.
Every morning and evening, the fog rolls out, and it is full of light and obscurity. It is as complex as the human heart. It holds and grips without even knowing it. In its innocence, everything is new. Through its incandescent mist, I am forgiven and saved.
