Windy Day

O Western Wind,

When wilt thou blow

That the long rain down can rain?

Christ, that my love were in my arms

And I in my bed again.

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I’ve no idea where that poem came from. A friend dictated it to me, and I can’t find the source. I’ve not forgotten those words, so fervent a call for a return of lost love, and a reminder that winds mark our days.

As I write today, winds have been howling over the oceans and threatening Florida and the Carolinas with devastating fury. If we were living in the ancient world, we’d know the gods were punishing us for our sins and we’d be searching our souls for what we’d done to deserve the torrents to come. We are, however, smarter now, and we don’t give supernatural meaning to everything that happens. Thank you, Science.

Still, powerful winds have blasted our continent, and we are forced to attend to their gusts. Storms can turn over everything. They remind us we are vulnerable to killing forces, nasty gales of an angry climate. We are weak in the face of a torrent out of control, and no match for such horrific energy. I’m not one to pretend there’s nothing to worry about. Those winds bring suffering.

Wind has long stood for change, a reminder that all things evolve, even me. I must get older and lose youthful exuberance, and so must you. Dreadful storms of war can come. A peaceful town can be hit by bombs, just as an innocent garden can be swept bare by gales. Interruptions by unwelcome change can be unpleasant, even horrendous, and the wind symbolizes all that comes despite our dreams of peace.

I have a safe place here, so I’m viewing the winds outside today with no rancor. In fact, restoration can happen on a windy day — maybe our thinking is inspired, or our dreams awakened, or our decisions enlightened with clarity. A storm ‘clears the air,’ we like to say, inviting the new and beautiful. It’s time to credit a windy day with praise.

Our town stands surrounded by desert, where the wind loves to rule, so I submit and accept. I’ll walk in the gusts and let it muss my gray hair, amused by the complaints of the busy people who dash into a calm room straightening their coats and smoothing their hair. Not me. This blast is a way to enjoy a natural moment I can’t control. My opportunities to revel in a natural setting are few: I can’t hike or bicycle or swim anymore. So the wind is my ocean, my forest.

Even with miseries from storms, this morning I can let myself think about fictional storms, like the tempest in Shakespeare bringing survivors to frolic on an island, or the whirlwind that brought God’s presence into the Hebrew mind. In addition, storms are exciting settings for struggles against the elements that are riveting in books and movies, like The Perfect Storm by Sebastian Junger, about Hurricane Grace and a nor’easter. Such upheavals in nature set creative imaginations on fire.

For prophets and poets, a cyclone can bring visions, like the chariots of fire that appeared across the heavens bringing promise. I like that biblical symbolism, so powerful and loud. While our tornadoes destroy with noise and fury, these amazing chariots come with an assurance that we can overcome (a phrase I love) and survive.

A gentle wind called spirit, which mystics have known as the source of our insights and energy, is altogether different, a spirit from the natural world bringing us closer to the infinite. Some seekers pray with an intake of breath because it contains the power of the Divine they seek. Wind of that kind contains holiness.

Anne Lamott, in her new book Somehow, tells of being hurt by an undeserved insult, like being blasted by a storm. After much soul-searching, she finds within herself “the still point of the turning world,” as TS Eliot called it. After a time, she saw that “the thatched roof of me had blown off,” and, “There I was, on a small plot of land inside . . . breathing . . ..” I like to think that in a bad storm we can find a ‘still point’ within us.

Winnie the Pooh loves a blustery day, and we see in those whimsical illustrations a furry bear and a little boy holding an umbrella as the wind pulls them off their feet. A wise Gopher advises them to leave the Hundred Acre Wood because it’s a Windsday, he says. Instead, Winnie the Pooh goes about wishing everyone a “Happy Windsday!” and proceeds to live his life protected by an umbrella.

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Happy Windsday!