The ballast I need

Photo credit: Marianne Møllmann 2025

The fog and rain have lifted. For two days now I have woken up to the most beautiful red sky. Last night, just before the sunset, the horizon was so sharp I could see the turning of the windmills in Kalundborg clearly, some 45 kilometers away across the water.

If only my mind would follow: the start of the year has been cloudy inside my head too.

I turn to the things I know. The concrete evidence of creativity around me. The sewing machine. The computers used mostly for making music and art. The light box and coloring implements. Yarn. Fabric. Books. Outdoor clothing shedded as we return to the hearth after walks.

There is nothing vague about this manifestation of love, this trail of active living my family leaves wherever it goes. I let the warmth of our togetherness wash over me as I sit in silent contemplation. This is our base. Yesterday, as we walked through impossibly beautiful frost-covered fields, we were suddenly overwhelmed by grief for the world and stopped for a good long while, sobbing, holding onto each other. Afterwards, we talked about the pond, the cake we wanted to bake, the swallows overhead.

This is how it goes: over the past month, these hills have heard our laments, our hopes, our anxieties, as well as our petty complaints and trite observations. A fair bit of food planning too. I know this is what sustains me. I think of my inside as a keel that needs filling up with solid, messy togetherness, the necessary ballast to weather any storm. Ah, the cheesiness of my imagery. I need that too, to cut through the fog within.

This is the cocoon from which I can emerge and be in the world with all its uncertainty, beauty, and sorrow. I know what to do now. The fog and rain have lifted.