My drive back to San Francisco was foggy. Now, for my friends who haven’t been to the west coast, let me clarify. What we’re dealing with is like the fog that makes Illinois schools postpone regional basketball games — only worse. You know the magic carpet ride in Aladdin? While they’re singing “A Whole New World”? And they each hold a little cloud? It was kinda like that.

It wasn’t like I couldn’t see where I was going. (Don’t worry. I would have stopped and waited for it to pass, Mom.) But sometimes I’d be driving around one of the bends that, I’m sure, looks out for a beautiful coastal view over the shoulder. But all I could see was the road I was on and a wall of pure white at the cliff’s edge. Sort of like driving Libby’s pink Hot Wheels convertible around and around our house (until we put a ding in the dishwasher and it was determined that this was only suitable as an outdoor toy).

And it wasn’t like this all the time. A lot of the time, it would lighten up and make for some picturesque countryside panoramas.

The next week when I was visiting my friends Sarah and Sebastian, we were south of SanFran and could literally see the fog “burning off” — clouds of white rolling up, up and away.

The fog struck me as symbolic. I couldn’t always see through it. Sometimes it really made me slow down. But seeing the landscape with this varying fog made me appreciate its beauty in a new light. And it was unique. The fog-and-sun play was different that day than it’s ever been.

It’s like my life. I don’t know what the next job I do will be. I don’t even know what my days will look like next week. But I’m here, now. I get to be moving at a slower pace, appreciating a different vantage. Today — and my view of it — is unlike any other day in history.