“I hate the wind,” she said.
Those words, like a spear to my spirit.
She grew up with the wind her whole childhood, so for her, he is a nuisance.
I imagine it spun her around, brushing her long hair into her face.
Where she lives, the land is filled with dirt roads, dry earth. When we visited her, it was indeed windy, but you see, I love the wind. I love how when I’m hiking in the hills, it pulls me along, and how it speaks in my ear, how it takes me by my finger tips and leads me along its path.
I can understand, though, how because she was with the wind all the time, she had a very different relationship with it. Whereas, for me, I don’t meet the wind all that often, so when he visits, I cherish him.
When we visited her, the wind howled and howled and slapped itself down upon the leaves of the trees and pushed the tangled weeds all around the yard. My hair is short, so it didn’t unloosen, nor did it swing it around.
Only once or maybe twice do I remember being a little frustrated with the wind. It was a day I was walking home and I was already in a mood and I had long hair and was holding plastic bags of light things, so my hair was flying around, the bags were flying around and the wind was pulling me against my will; and when I tried to pull my hair back into place, the bags would sling and fall off my arm. That day the wind was foe.
But you know I love you, dear wind; I invite you to play with me and to dance with me, to parade me around, as I open my arms, close my eyes and fly with you into the vastness of the open sky, the open land. You are my wings, dear wind; You are always welcome and I’m glad that I haven’t had too much of you, so that I can still appreciate you and not hate you.