The Winds in My Life
The winds of my life have been persistent, like the winds in Texas can sometimes be, constant, blowing your hair in your face, pushing your car door shut, sending that needed piece of paper in your hand skittering down the street as you chase after it. Not devastating winds, not tornadic whirlwinds or bend-you-double-with-their-force winds, but relentless nonetheless. Winds that keep your house dusty, your yard full of leaves, the trashcan often on its side. Winds that require a jacket in spring, a windbreaker in fall, a heavy coat in winter, and that make the heat hotter, the cold colder and the rain wetter. Winds that whistle, howl, moan; that make the house creak, the windows rattle. Winds that cause trees limbs to scrap the roof of the house, as if an eerie threat hovers right outside. Winds that bring the spectacle of a white lightning storm, the sting of a blue norther, the blast furnace of the yellow desert. Winds that wear you down without you noticing until you happen onto a place where there is no wind. Then you marvel at the calmness, the silence, the ease. But then the stillness starts to feel stagnant, the air too close and a longing sets in for the winds to come and blow out all the accumulated gunk. And the next thing you know, you’re bending against that familiar pressure, but this time feeling relief that your hair is lifting up and swirling round your face, not stuck wet and hot on your head like a weight. And you look up and see glistening stars against a black sky and find yourself breathing in those winds, happy for their far-off wisdom, which promises constant erosion, but also constant accumulation and you know the winds somehow provide a delicate balance between too little and too much and you’re glad you don’t have to live on a windless plain with the glaring sun beating down on too-white skin slathered in sunscreen. Instead, you find yourself caressed by those never-ceasing winds, a baby, swaddled and safe, mouth slack from relaxation and trust.