The wind tastes like change, and freedom. The herald of the seasons, it carries messages from the mountains to the plains, and out to the ocean along a dizzying pathway. Persistent but not at all patient, the wind grapples for my attention, tugging on hems, knotting hair and stealing papers, often met by agitation from the subject of its mischief. The wind, however, is rarely dissuaded.
The wind crashes against my window, eager in its excitement to tell me what the mountains have sent me today. It lingers on my porch, determined to lick my cheeks and tell me stories from its travels. Some days, the wind is strong and wraps me in its arms in a breathtaking embrace. Other days, the wind is timid and gentle, caressing flowers and hiding from me in the garden. They are the same wind, and sent from the same places that I love.
Eventually, I give in and join the wind outside, because tangled in the wind is a holy place to be. Wrapped in an unseen and inexplicable force, the chaos is comforting. The wind originated with the one who made the mountains, the oceans and the plains. The wind can kiss my cheeks and stop me in my tracks, an invisible hand belonging to someone greater. He sends me the wind to feel large and small, steady and uncertain, and gloriously grounded.
Good morning, old friend. What have you brought me today?