The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.

   John 3:8


Born of the wind, wisdom speaks in whispers, howls, whistles, roars, bellows, songs. Seemingly random, seemingly chaotic, it trumpets, rumbles, booms and thunders. It happens again, and again, until the message gets through.

A couple walks the headlands. Creatures of the wind. He mutters, whines, wails, shrieks.

“That northwesterly pierces me to the bone,” he says “Bloody witch!”

“Spirit,” says the woman. “The wind is a spirit.”

“Bloody spirit then,” says the man who frowns in a way familiar to her.

The wind drops odd surprises onto a rock. Without the wind the rock would be just a rock.

It is a sort of witch thinks the woman but she doesn’t tell him. He wouldn’t understand. A sorcerer. An invisible sculptor. A woman knows birth. A man knows death.

The wind has no shape, size, smell, taste or sound of its own. But, it does have power. It blasts, stabs, tickles, burns. It is natures inseminator spreading seeds over the land.

“I feel helpless before this wind,” says the man. “I don’t like it.”

The woman looks at him. “You aren’t helpless,” she says. “This wind is alive. Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?” he says. “I feel like a weak bird unable to fly swept away by a gale.”

The man finds shelter in a grove of twisted cypress trees surrounded by a clump of coastal scrub.

“Don’t you feel a part of something very big and very strange,” says the woman as she snuggles up beside him.

“What bullshit,” he says a bit annoyed.

“Some hidden force surrounds us,” says the woman. “It’s powerful. It bends trees, throws the ocean into confusion, whips up waves of white froth, congeals into voluminous clouds. The wind communicates with us, directly.”

Her eyes are wild. He’s seen her like this when she goes off on one of her mind games.

“Yea,” the man says. “The evil fucking wind points its middle finger right at me like I’m a toy in its path. We’d blow into those mad crashing waves if we weren’t here secure among these trees.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she laughs. “Your right, the wind can overwhelm. It touches us and changes us. It’s an enemy but also a friend.”

A seagull squawks loudly as it struggles along in front of them. They stop shivering after a few minutes sheltered by the trees.

“How is the wind our friend?” he asks.

“The wind reminds us that we are connected to nature, and that we are not stone statues, that life flows and that we flow with it. Maybe we don’t have total control but we have some control.”

“Well, I guess the wind keeps the fog away.” He turns toward her, puts his hand on her shoulder and pushes her down gently onto her back.

“Here?” she says. “Now?”

“Why not,” he says. “The wind is our friend, right? No one will come by here to interrupt our party.”

Gusts. Limbs sway. Leaves blow. Suddenly it’s warm. Things change quickly as the wind blows. The wind clears the way for the inconceivable. She is one with nature. He is one with her, with himself. Divinity at the crossroads of the universe.

Maybe he does have some say in the workings of the world, he thinks. Maybe life is not predetermined chaos or a series of random events.

Suddenly it’s chilly again. Adding to the chill is the upwelling of the deep cold water churned by the prevailing northwest wind. He doesn’t mind. Nor does she seem to. There is an excitement, a special kind of thrill, to making love under the cypress trees on the headlands. It adds an extra layer of warmth and protection from the wind. Interstitial truths envelope them as they lay with each other and gaze at gnarled tree limbs overhead.

 “I think I get it now,” he says. “Being in the wind strangely involves me with the world outside.”

“Outside what?” She’s not really paying attention. She’s still in the ecstasy of lovemaking.

“Outside of myself,” he says.

“That’s good,” she says reflexively.

“What do you mean good “ he says.

“You know. Good to open your mind to new possibilities.”

He wasn’t sure if that’s what he meant. He didn’t want to pursue it further. He was pulling up his pants. He was ready to move on.

“Have you ever thought the wind could drive you to something completely out of the ordinary?” she says.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Suicide? Murder?” She had a look he’d never seen before.

“What! No. What on earth made you think of that?”

“Sex is like that,” she says. “There’s this exquisite rush or a series of rushes then it’s over. Over.”

The wind filled him with a nervous tension. “We should move on,” he says. “Before the rain comes.” A line of dark pancake clouds swooped over them.

There is something about the wind that makes him restless, she thinks. He seeks calm like the trees seek the protection of the cliff.

An osprey glides quietly overhead oblivious to the wind, wing-wide upon the miraculous air.

“The wind has a voice of its own,” she says. “We can’t hear it but it determines our inner lives.”

“What do you mean by that? Are you saying I am as the wind is? That the wind determines who I am and what I do?” He starts to leave but realizes she’s still lying under the trees.

“Yes,” she says. “In a way.”

He cocks his head, glances out to the ocean, looks back at her. “Let’s get going.”

She isn’t ready but she takes his hand. He helps her up.

Nothing happens in isolation. The air carries messages and the the wind circulates the news. The ocean foam swarms with tiny creatures that rise into the air when the waves crash against the shore. The winds are persistent along the coast. Sometimes they lash the headlands with unusual storms.

Hand in hand they struggle against the wind. Relentless and unforgiving the wind sweeps them along like two waltzing jinns until they are no longer in sight.

The lightening comes first and then the thunder. The two lumbar across the sky like blind giants, twist this way and that. Cool hard rain, first just a drizzle, turns quickly into a squall followed by ice and hail. A thunderstorm is a living thing. It struggles to maintain but ultimately grows old and dies. The wind. It sleeps. Rises again the next day awakened and refreshed.