I love the wind. The wind reminds me that I'm alive. I can feel it all over, inside and out. It's palpable passion, the strength, the invigorating feeling it gives. It makes me want to run, energizes me, makes me feel all things are possible, that I can do anything I want. Ideas pop into my head. It does the same thing in a fire that has cooled down - just open a vent to let in some wind, and the cold ashes are blown away to reveal the hot coals underneath - with the touch of the wind, they flare up, provide warmth, come alive again.
I love the wind. I love its energy, how it brushes my skin, roars in my ears, and whips through my hair. On my morning walk yesterday, it swept me and my dogs down the dirt road. The wind felt full of life, like a child eager to play. It invigorated me, filled me with optimism and ideas.
It continued all day: a playful shove each time I walked out the door; a stealthy thief trying to pickpocket loose papers from my purse; a guest sneakily rearranging plastic chairs and cushions and anything else not bolted down on my back deck.
At dusk, it was still roaring down the road when Tom and I took a walk to check on the progress of a future neighbor’s house (one of the hobbies we share - snooping around new construction.) It will eventually be an underground, or rather “inside hill”, house, but right now there are just piles and piles of dirt that have been scooped out near the top of the hill, where there is little to block the wind. Dust devils danced in the clearing.
I gazed down at our little hollow, full of junipers and oaks bowing to the wind’s will, and realized…I also need to fear the wind. This part of Texas outside of Austin is much like California on windy, dry summer days like this – a wildfire heaven of hollows and dry trees. I know from experience clearing junipers off of our property that they explode when tossed on a bonfire. Our house is made of polystyrene blocks filled with concrete, topped with a metal roof - it would probably survive a fire. Probably. But not without damage even if it does remain standing; it is surrounded by junipers and oaks. And what about our neighbors' houses, the animals, trees, wildflowers...? I had to stop thinking about it.
After dark, I sipped wine on the back deck while feeding the dogs, listening to the crickets sing (whoever said the country is a quiet place never experienced it at night), and watching the crescent moon flirt with me behind a veil of fast-moving gauzy clouds. The wind still rushed down the deck, strong enough to move the dogs’ not-quite-empty bowls.
I still love the wind, but I have to remember it can be an impish child – one who sometimes likes to play with matches. And we know what happens then…
