Into the Mist

Mist, mountains, warm water, and the quiet company of trees. A moment that asked nothing and offered so much ease.

A while back, I was sitting in a hot tub on a quiet mountain deck, watching the ridge soften under a blanket of morning mist. Foam drifted over the edges in slow, round shapes. Steam lifted into the cool air like it had nowhere in particular to be. And the tall pines stood nearby like old friends — steady, kind, and completely here with me.

The moment felt simple in the best possible way.

Breath. Warmth. Sky. Water.

Nothing to solve.

Nothing tugging me toward anywhere else.

Just a gentle settling — the kind that happens when the world around me moves at a pace my body can trust.

Fog drifted through the branches as if it had all the time in the world.

Water hummed beneath the surface in its soft rhythm.

The mountains stood calm, grounded without effort.

Being there felt like syncing up with a natural steadiness — not one I had to earn or think my way into, but one that existed simply because I was present for it.

I didn’t need insight. I didn’t need meaning.

I just let the moment soften, slow my breath, and let everything inside me move into the same ease the landscape was already offering.

Some places feel like friends — steady, kind, and completely here with me.

That morning, surrounded by mist and quiet trees, felt like that kind of friendship:

a calm companionship, a gentle holding, a soft place to land exactly as I am.

Just breath.

Just presence.

Just the quiet company of the mountains, standing beside me in the moment and asking for nothing more.