Living in a cloud can take you to the highest of heights, above the clouds on sunny crisp days after the fog when it’s just you and Monviso and a happy world above that billowing white further down the hill.
I imagine this is what heaven is supposed to be like, this feeling of giddiness, highness, closer-to-the-sun purity. A kind of moral high ground conferred by the altitude, the great piemontese sky, and the cloudy shroud at our feet.
The Serralunga castle peeks above, as though in a moment of difficulty in life, striving for light and forgiveness. Swimming bastions, just the top of the tower gains redemption as purgatory swirls below. I feel the need, at this distance, to pluck it with my fingertips, back to the sun, salvation and safety.
Living in a cloud can take you to the dampest of lows – darker, wetter days when I’d swear it had rained but it was just the cloud that had condescended and remained glistening on the terrace.
Days when driving, strain as I might, I cannot make out anything on the road, no lines marked, no corner sharp enough to define in this fog. I frown, as though that might make a difference, as though it might help in this metaphor of driving through cloud as making my way through life. One a destination, the other a destiny.
I lose my way in the fog, alone there is nothing to guide me. Striving for a sign to find the path home, it comes in the form of my neighbour’s leylandii hedge, a guard along the road’s edge to indicate a corner, a bend in the road to bring me home to hearth and heat.
We live everything in between from pastel mornings, to rosy bright evenings, to overcast days… to being able to touch the cloud when it descends into the garden. It always surprises me just how close our domestic environment is to this sky. Every day is a new greeting, a new beginning, a new way of getting to know our daily celestial elements, who pattern and trace our days.