“O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
The wind has been unrelenting all week. Steady breezes of at least 30-40 miles per hour, with bitter gusts adding a sharp chill to what is unseasonably warm weather. What is it about the wind that sets ones teeth on edge? The chill? Windburn? Fatigue? The howling? Or as my son suggests, the fact that it blows your hat off?
Wind has long haunted the human conscience. There are no less than eleven mythological wind gods, including Aquilo (north wind), Eurus (east wind), Auster (south wind) and the fellow gracing us with his presence today Favonius (west wind). According to the thesaurus, there are thirty-five named winds worldwide. There is poetry in the names: pampero (Argentina), willwaw (Canada), willy-willy (Australia) and tramontane (France). I cannot find the poetry outside my door today.
A sense of powerlessness, weather induced ennui, overtakes me on windy days. Unlike, a horse I cannot turn tail to the breeze and wait it out. Nor can I face the onslaught with the bulk of a bison and carry on. There is nothing left for me to do, but hunker down and wait the weather out, like the other lesser beasts.
It’s either that or I develop the coping skills of my wind-blown husband. He is ever conscious of when to open a vehicle door, the best places to feed hay, saddle your horse, or accomplish any task while braving the elements. We’ve long-since left Wyoming. As a result, Guy doesn’t cram his hat upon his head with the extreme force once necessary. Nonetheless, his attitude toward wind is better than my own.
In my hiding, I do not let the wind shape me. While I fight the movements of nature, he lets the wind inform his choices and mold his behavior. He like the dunes patiently shifts his being grain-by-grain and perseveres, while I risk toppling over.