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Listening to the Wind
This was the most delightful phrase to hear on a dark Thursday morning. Apparently, when the Academy contacted Anne Carson telling her she had won the Nobel Prize for Literature, she said she was in Iceland “listening to the wind”.1 It was a fitting response to the reasons the Swedish Academy honoured her: “for her bold and inventive oeuvre that, in playful dialogue with the classical tradition, has created new forms for contemporary literature.”2
Hearing those four words sent me running again to my computer. Then they brought me pictures of times when I experienced wind. I thought of last year’s storms when I was still walking regularly by the ocean. At one point, gusts of wind were so strong I had to plant my feet firmly to stay upright. This wind howled around me, making me wonder how the grasses and trees weren’t being ripped to shreds.
That wind was a howling roar so loud I hiked up my hood around my winter hat and pulled the strings tightly around my glasses—a personal battening down the hatches moment. An unforeseen event or responsibility surprises or shocks us, a sudden harsh word pierces our hearts, or a natural disaster occurs, and we can hardly stand up straight. The world swirls around us as we attempt to cope.
Another time, I was walking around our local airpark nature walk, feeling wafts of fresh cooling air from the ocean on my cheeks and forehead. The day threatened to be humid and hot. It reminded me to get into the shade and stay present in the moment, to enjoy that cooling breath of air. Listening to that wind was hard to hear above the traffic noise, the birds, and the sounds of other people walking and talking, their shoes making an audible rhythmic cadence.
Just like the noise surrounding me, I couldn’t hear the wind, my intuition, or my soul. Too many time crunches and my mind’s insistence on grinding forward instead of resting are the noises that sometimes rule my life. My breathing becomes quick and shallow in an attempt to cope; my brain is too busy whirling to help me calm down. Breathing deep breaths helps.
A few times, I’ve been in a canyon or on the open prairie when I’ve heard the wind make an actual sound as it flowed around a barrier or through a narrow opening. It sounded eerie at first, but as I understood why the wind was making such a sound, it became the wind’s accomplice. Ever put a blade of grass in between your thumbs and blow air through it? It becomes a screeching whistle if you do it right. These types of wind remind me I can get focussed on one sound, one thing to the exclusion of everything else. I get so wrapped up in what I hear or do that I lose track of everything else, including the important stuff.
I’ve never been near a tornado or hurricane, so I don’t know what that wind sounds like. I have been inside buildings when high winds have rattled window panes and loosened shakes on the roof. The damage from that type of wind leaves its evidence spewed over roads and yards. The power fails. We light candles, get out the warm blankets, and wonder what we can whip up for a meal without electricity or a wood stove. An unspoken fear settles in the back of our minds as we wonder whether that wind will do more damage.
When such high winds blow it feels like I’ve lost all control of my environment and my life, like I’m inside a destructive force threatening our lives. Usually, though, the fear I and my family feel subsides. We pull together and find some raw veggies; make sandwiches, and crunch on potato chips. The power comes back on, or our family heads for bed early. Where I live, power typically returns swiftly, and the storm passes after a day or two.
My family and I faced interruptions, but when we sat in front of candles in our house, conversation flowed, and we felt connected to each other again. We used our problem-solving skills together to work things out. With a new day, we remind ourselves to get more candles or more batteries for our flashlights. It’s good to be prepared.
When wind interacts with another force like fire, it quickly transforms into a lethal force. As a fire grows hot and large enough, the air turns into storm-force winds blowing inward from every direction toward the center of the blaze, obliterating everything in their path. Life can be a firestorm, too. Some may lose their lives. Others lose their house, their neighbourhood, and all the mementoes and pictures that remind us of our time with loved ones long passed. I cannot begin to feel what people who’ve lost loved ones in a firestorm feel, but I have felt the possibility of losing the only item of meaningful significance I received from my parents before they died.
My parents were sitting on the edge of the bed when I came over to make their breakfast. What’ll it be, Dad? Eggs, porridge? Porridge was my Dad’s favourite. He used to make it for me every day before school. Oatmeal, Red River, Cream of Wheat? They decided on Cream of Wheat. Then Dad reached behind him and brought out a beautiful stainless steel bracelet. He explained that when he worked in an airline factory as a young man, he fashioned this bracelet for my mom out of airplane steel. I’d never seen her wear it, but it fit me perfectly. It rarely left my wrist. One day when I was getting blood tests done at the hospital, I took my bracelet off and forgot it. Back home, I went into full-out panic mode. My heart beat out of my chest as I called the hospital to see if someone had turned it in. Panic turned to overwhelming relief as they said they were holding it for me to pick up. The joy I felt when I picked it up and put it back on my wrist surely matched the pain I felt when I thought I’d lost it.
While I can’t imagine the sound of a hurricane or a firestorm, I can tell you about wind altered by another element: frozen water. I experienced vicious blizzards while living on the prairie. It stung any exposed skin with a thousand needles. If you were facing into the wind, sucking air in short gulps was the only way you could breathe. This unrelenting wind was a solid sheet of sound and horizontal ice, yet when the blizzard ceased, the sun would shine revealing gorgeous sculptured snow in incredibly graceful shapes. Maybe that solid sheet of sound reminds us how powerful the wind is, and as powerful as that sound is, we learn to respect it. That is true, but listening to the wind also makes me feel incredibly alive as if my humanness is facing its goliath and grinning. When was the last time you listened to the wind, and it talked back?
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