Image by Pandiyan via Flickr
I've felt free these last few months since I decided to become a writer; when the world knows that you write, it wants you to tell its stories. Speak to me then, I say. My mind has been free to build a new country, with little influence and of its own volition. It travels light, no cart or horse, flying over new lands and painting with its fingers the stories I concoct. My freedom has given me license in the real world to uproot, cast my arms wide, and feel the warmth of the sun on my face. With eyes closed, breathing deeply, I can feel my growth, and I have everything I need for it. If there are no other material examples, you need only look at the deliberate abandon with which I've grown these wavy locks.
What's on your mind? Nothing. Perfect.
And maybe, it is this hair that has caught the attention of the wind. Does it revel in the opportunity to cast me as wind-blown? Perhaps. Until now, I've been unable to hear the wind's tune, but with these locks I hear the symphonic whistle; all acts layered into one endless tune. My wings catch flight, my curls shimmy, my wisps waver, and my strands submit to the will of the wind.
I can hear it when I don’t concentrate on it; concentration restricts me to hearing nothing but the howl across the ear. Listen. Inside of that howl, there is a whistle. It starts when you close your eyes and imagine nothing, there you can find the high-pitched hum that begins your search for the right station on the dial. Many tune out when they hear the piercing, which just might be its intent, but as you’re connected it fades into sweet elemental notes. Once you have it, there’s nothing you can do to stop it from enveloping you; mixing your sound with a billion others that it has touched since its inception.
The wind carries stories that prickle the skin, cut through bone, stories of cyclical evolution, and of energy and power; millions of years of shaping without tools. Persistence. It runs its fingers through my hair, and leaves it a mess. It offers to take me wherever I wish, while flirting with my clothes and giving them such excitement that they flap at the though of being carried away.
I listened, and heard, and understood; the wind tells no lies. It carries upon it the tales of the past, but knows nothing of the future, aside from the confidence that it is headed there. If you’re willing, it will lift you up and take you for a ride, exactly what it wants to do for those that take the time to learn its language. For others, those full of nothing but hot air, its gale force can ruin a day. Beware of making the wind angry or it will deafen you for your indifference.
Face the wind; it will reward you for being bold and its stories are best heard in stereo.
Respect the wind and it will tell you which way to blow. You will hear it in nature, creating visual and audible art across tall grasses, in the sails, and sternly pressing upon the leaves an instruction to fall. It will knock at your door, then sneak in through the cracks, causing you to seek comfort from a loved one or a blanket--its own way of promoting the existence of true love. At the other end of the seasons, it will marry your perspiration and comfort you like no other.
The wind is motion. The wind is for action, not for thought. We think when there is no wind; we think "if only the sails were full" or "I wish I could fly this kite," but when we have wind, it urges us to come out and play, and play we should. Why? Because the wind is persistent even though its only constant is its unpredictable nature.
O fickle wind, will you blow for me today?