Woke up this morning to blank distress about Japan; to a landscape smothered in fog so dense and ominous that it might be a character in a Dickens novel; and to the wincing guilt of having forgotten my nephew's birthday yesterday, which is a peccadillo in the grand scheme but which makes my sister unhappy and also makes me feel barely competent to call myself an adult.

So far I'm the only person awake in this fog-ridden cottage. The damp logs in the woodstove tick and smolder. Under this dull uncertain daylight, everything, inside and out, exudes dingy old age. The gray pines are a thousand years old. The gray automobiles have been parked in the woods to rot. The gray bananas on the gray counter were unearthed from the larders of ancient Rome.

At the window feeder, three busy chickadees root among the gray seed hulls. The feeder is mostly empty, but their optimism is a tiny spark of cheer. I wonder what the birds of Japan are doing today in their stricken landscape.

Yet now, just as I'm composing this dirge, the sun decides to break through the shroud of fog. A ridiculous televisionista ploy! What if I'm not ready to feel less gloomy yet?