I woke earlier than usual this morning, but without the usual fog that seems to be the side affect of some of my medications. It wasn’t even 6 yet and I don’t have to be at work until 8:30, that meant I had some time to get out with the camera for a change. I dressed quickly (Iwear a uniform at work so no decisions about what to wear), and stepped out the door into a thick grey fog.
Just across the street is an old cemetery set on the side of a hill. “Old” in this case means early 1800s, certainly not the oldest in the state, but old enough that the markers have weathered and are surrounded by mature trees. I let the car idle along at a walking pace, the fog thick enough that I had to hit the windshield wipers a time or two so I could see clearly.
Cemeteries photographed in the fog have been done so often I almost felt guilty, but one might argue that if we only photographed things that had never been photographed before the whole industry would collapse. The goal then becomes to do it in a way that has some meaning to oneself. As I came to the point where the tree in the background aligned with the headstone it came to me. We emerge from the history of our ancestors, branch out in our own paths, offer up new growth that becomes obscured by the fog of the future. We aren’t always clear about what went before, and we will never know what’s to come. We live our lives in a changeable fog that lets us see just enough to get by. We should be thankful for that.
Olympus OMD EM1 with 40-150 zoom.