Wind

11 02 2008

     I walked outside a few minutes ago.  The wind is gusting against the house, sighing and huffing down the chimney like the big bad wolf.  The house is responding in various ways, creaking and shifting; some of our weatherproofing plastic is breathing in and out with the wind.

The moon above is a crescent tipped like a nest and holding the outlined shadow of it’s black egg cradled.  The phoenix egg, I guess, getting ready to hatch again into a new, round moon.  The trees, black against the purple (and orange) night sky, are bending hard under the wind.

I love the feel of the wind.  I love it when it presses against my body and gets up under my skirt and lifts the fringes of my hair along my neck.  In general, I hate to be blown on.  I will hardly let Neal use the ceiling fans in our home because I hate the pulsing feeling of the air they blow.  I can’t sleep under it at all.  It annoys me nearly as much as if someone was trickling water on me all night long.  We have often had to arrange our bedrooms rather queerly so I’m not near an air vent and being “blown on.”

So why is the wind so different?  It comes with a feeling of power- as if it could swoop me up and carry me off.  It presses against the whole length of my body, sighs, changes direction and presses again.  It swirls around me and lifts my clothes and my hair and my spirits.  The Holy Spirit, like the wind, blows wherever it chooses, and it rocks us where we stand.  Once blown on, we are never the same again.

It makes me want to run and keep on running, run like I do in my dreams where my strength is inexhaustible and I have the power to go and go and go.  I have so many dreams where I am running along roads and highways, and I am truly not much of a jogger!  Since I hurt my knees I can run about fifty yards, and only walk about half a mile.  But in my dreams I run tirelessly, breathing deeply, past houses and trees.

I have  a lot of recurrent dreams.  One of the most common right now is a dream in which I am running and I see a house for sale.  I go in the house, and my dreams of these homes are very detailed.  I could describe rooms and furniture and curtains and in some cases the current occupants of the homes to you.  But I explore these homes and they seem endless.  There is always another room- more amenities than I can imagine.  And I can afford them.  Like my dream running, they seem effortless, without end.  Even the giant farmhouse whose kitchen wing was partially burned- they all seem so satisfying, it is exasperating to wake up and realize that our house has not sold, and we still sit here, waiting.

It’s an odd thing to dream about- buying houses.  I dream about it a lot, even when we’re not in the housing market.  There’s something about walking through a home with the power to choose it and the life it will bring that must appeal to me deeply.  Because it fills my dreams.

Anyhow- this is vague and wandering, and I need to let my children have a turn on the computer.  Outside the wind is luring me to walk across the green field of winter rye under the thin moon, but I have to stay inside and fold clothes.

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