This week’s writing assignment was to write about what you saw this morning. Clearly, I’ve been thinking about the book I just finished, The Name of the Wind. Also, things have been quite out of season, weather wise.
Last night I slept with the windows open. Livingroom, kitchen, craftroom and bedroom all flushed clear with the breeze yesterday afternoon, now a bit different from the overnight wind. Wind is dangerous. And beautiful. But dangerous as so many beautiful things are. Wind is change to me. Perhaps that’s just the old superstitions from my childhood. Or maybe not.
New navy blue sheets and new blue and yellow and white quilt on the bed. Time for a change, I suppose. The morning breeze puffs in and I imagine the yellow quilt flowers scatter. Rain is coming, but it is bizarre, not-winter not-spring rain. Rain out of time. In the sky there is a gash of silver in the grey clouds; a slash-mouth opening and closing. The wind blows out of the cloud’s mouth into the windows, over my bed, through the house and out the kitchen window.
Cat fur ruffles as it goes by. The rain comes. And then it goes. The wind blows. Change is coming.
What will the wind bring? Will it be good or bad? Will I know which it is if I see it? Change, like the wind itself, is marked by the things it touches. Neither have voice of their own, only the things lifted up, knocked down, turned over, revealed cry out or laugh or sigh. Wind and change are mute.
Trees cast soft grey shadows on the windows as the gash-mouth in the sky opens and closes, brightening and darkening with each breath. The trees pantomime a play in the mercurial world outside. And inside. There is no separation between the two worlds any more. They dance an unknown story to me.
In some parts of the world there are names for the wind. The hot wind of the Sahara that blows dusty plumes out into the ocean is the Calima. The Passat is the whispering name for the trade winds that blow steady and even through the tropics. The Kosava charges down the Carpathians and through the Iron Gate, cold and sharp and fast. There is a “black wind” called the Rashaba in Iraq. But I, myself, know of no name for the wind. How can you name such a thing? The wildest things have no name because they cannot be named, but I do know there is a difference between a night-wind and an afternoon breeze. Night-wind is not the name but it is as close as I can come. The night-wind is the wildest of all.
I watch it walk across my life, across the bed, down the hall, into the kitchen and back up to the mouth of the sky, taking something with it and leaving something behind.