The Wind

The wind is a force that knows no origin and does as it wishes; it continues to blow as much as I want to hold it back. I can scream at it, get mad at it, or curse it, but no one will hear me over its mighty pounding and aggression.

The truth is that wind is as inanimate as the concrete mailbox that absorbs its strength; it does not hate or fear or love, but only moves at the whim of nature and science. It makes no sense to seek meaning from the wind, yet I daily wonder what it is trying to teach me; like free-form jazz I try to decipher its rhythms and rhymes, but there is nothing there but our individual interpretations.

Maybe it is best to just sit back and be in awe of its mighty prowess to push ships around an ocean and its wizard-like ability to carve a sculpture in the desert that no man can recreate. It will do its work whether or not I believe in it, praise it, or curse it. It will continue to gust and bluster and throw its immeasurable weight around.

Perhaps I give it too much credit. I just need to recognize its work and its worth without making it into something that will benefit me in some selfish way, but something that is a constant, steady, and formidable presence in my life.

Where does it go when the air is calm and still and nothing can be heard but my own heartbeat or the cry of nearby bird? That I cannot answer, yet I know it is performing its show somewhere else. I also know it will return in its own time and perform its magical performance for me another day.

Dylan believed there was an answer in the wind, but I am skeptical. Perhaps the wind holds no rhyme, no reason, and no answer. Perhaps there is only its ever-present presence that swirls within my drifting thoughts as it molds and carves its way through my blustery life.