Prose - The Wind

The wind has been gnawing at us for weeks now.
Global warming is happening everywhere. The moisture is leaving us, the freezing cold is slowing down, but the wind is back. Its in its usual season again, having wandered for a couple of years into spring and summer. But its always been at its strongest in the winter months.
Its drawn my attention even more because its been warm enough to hike, but miserable in the wind. I could have been painting my cold frame, but it would have been covered in dust and twigs.
In Native American lore, the wind is known as the Grandmother, cleansing us, and bringing us messages. It’s a challenge to hear any message, with all the howling and whipping of air. As far as cleansing, it feels more like the positive ions has left a jumbled mess in my being. The wind is capable of great damage, physically, emotionally and mentally.
So when I was talking with a client and she says she thinks of the wind as a frustrated lover, I somehow began to relate. The wind, with its power to thwart is so great. Just think, she says, “it blows and blows and blows, but never has an orgasm. It tries this way and that way, another gust here, one there, but it never comes. Finally, after much efforting and we are all worn to a frazzle, the wind just gives up, it falls flat, much to everyone’s relief. Quiet, silent, peaceful, still air, bringing sanity once again.
Patricia