The Fog Is Sacred
There are seasons when clarity disappears.
When the path vanishes beneath our feet.
When grief, confusion, and emotional overwhelm roll in like fog—
thick, disorienting, relentless.
We try to push through.
We try to make sense.
But the fog is not a mistake.
It is a threshold.
It is the soul’s way of saying:
“You are no longer who you were.
You are not yet who you will be.
Rest here. Be with the mist.”
The mist is not your enemy.
It is the womb of transformation.
It softens the edges of who you were,
so the soul can reshape itself
without the boundaries of certainty.
Be with the mist.
Let it hold you.
Let it blur the old stories
until only Truth remains.
Adolescence of the Soul
Humanity aches like a teenager
at this stage of consciousness development.
Full-blown identity crisis.
Raging emotions.
Resisting guidance.
Stirring up trouble.
Spreading pain.
Craving attention while fearing rejection.
Longing to be seen,
yet terrified of being truly known.
So we curate identities
to hide our confusion.
We create profiles, join groups,
and express strong opinions—
not from clarity, but from fear of invisibility.
We don emotional armor:
confidence, rebellion, religious certainty—
while inside, we’re just aching to be loved.
And so we stumble.
We lash out.
We break what we don’t understand.
Not because we are evil—
but because we are still learning
what it means to be whole.
The fog is not failure.
It is the soul’s cocoon.
A place where illusions dissolve
so Truth can be revealed.
The wise watch with heartbreak—
not because they’ve lost hope,
but because they remember
what it feels like to be lost
and still becoming.
There’s no shortcut to wisdom.
Only the ache.
Only the fog.
Only the long road through.
Confusion as Threshold
Confusion is not the absence of truth.
It is the loosening of illusion.
It is the soul’s way of saying,
“Wait. Something deeper is being born.”
When the ego begins to dissolve,
the soul does not rush in with answers.
There is a space between—
a holy in-between—
where the old “I” no longer fits,
and the true “I” has not yet emerged.
This is the ache of becoming.
We ask, “If I’m not this, then what am I?”
And the mist replies,
“You are what remains
when all else falls away.”
Like Frodo in The Lord of the Rings,
we carry the ring—
the illusion of control.
Not because we love it—
it is a heavy burden.
But because we fear what we’d be without it.
Humanity is Frodo Baggins—
clutching “my precious,”
the ego’s illusion of control, identity, power.
We carry it through shadow and struggle,
not yet ready to release what defines us.
But the journey is not about keeping the ring.
It is about throwing it into the fire—
the fire of spiritual transformation.
Not to be destroyed,
but to be remade.
Not to lose ourselves,
but to become who we truly are.
The Illusion of Invisibility
When Frodo put on the ring,
he disappeared—
but the dark forces saw him more clearly.
This is the paradox of ego’s illusion:
we think we’re hiding,
but we become more vulnerable
to what harms us.
We curate identities to feel safe.
We disappear behind confidence, rebellion,
religious certainty, and curated belonging.
But the more we disappear,
the more entangled we become.
The ego says, “Hide and you’ll be safe.”
But the soul whispers,
“Be seen, and you’ll be free.”
True safety is not in disappearing.
It is in surrender.
It is in letting go of the ring,
and stepping into the fire
that transforms without consuming.
Grief as Teacher
Grief arrives when the ring begins to loosen.
When the curated self starts to fall away.
When the soul whispers,
“You are more than this.”
And the ego trembles,
“But this is all I know.”
Grief is not the enemy.
It is the teacher
who walks us to the threshold.
It strips away what cannot stay,
not to harm us,
but to make room for what is true.
Grief softens the armor.
It cracks the illusion.
It opens the heart
so the soul can breathe.
Grief is the emptying of the glass.
We thought we were full—
full of certainty, identity, direction.
But grief comes and spills it all.
Not to punish,
but to prepare.
Grief clears the clutter of ego.
It washes away the stories we clung to.
It leaves us trembling,
but open.
Only then can mercy pour in.
Not as an answer,
but as presence.
Not to refill the glass,
but to teach us how to drink
from something deeper.
Emotional Overwhelm as Invitation
Emotional overwhelm
is not a sign of weakness.
It is the soul’s alarm bell—
a signal that something sacred
is stirring beneath the surface.
We feel too much
because we are becoming more.
The heart stretches
to hold what it once avoided.
The body trembles
with truths it cannot yet name.
This is not dysfunction.
This is initiation.
Overwhelm invites us
to pause,
to listen,
to soften the grip of control
and let the soul speak.
It is not asking for solutions.
It is asking for presence.
To sit with the ache.
To breathe with the storm.
To trust that what feels like too much
is exactly what is needed
to become who we truly are.
The Long Road Through
There is no shortcut to wisdom.
No bypass around the ache.
No fast-forward through the fog.
Only the slow unraveling
of what no longer serves.
Only the tender shedding
of who we thought we had to be.
The soul does not rush.
It walks with mercy.
It waits in silence.
It trusts the fog
to do its sacred work.
This is the long road through—
not a detour,
but the path itself.
And though the way is unclear,
you are not lost.
You are becoming.
Closing Blessing
If you are in the fog,
may you be held.
May you be remade.
May you trust the long road through.
May grief soften you.
May mercy find you.
May the ache become a doorway
to the truth of who you are.
Next Post: Higher Perspective
Rev. Joan M. Kistler 