Not many folks like the wind out here in Northern New Mexico. Of course, there are times, in the late afternoon, when the breeze, like small waves, comes rolling in from the west, trees gently swaying. I hear the ocean in the wind, the way when, as a child, my mother held a conch to my ear and heard the ocean winds from far in the distance faintly whistling.
But then, without notice, the wind will build, picking up dust and dirt, traveling like some brown caped ghost, enveloping me, taking me, snapping my hat off my head, throwing dust into my eyes, pushing me from behind, hard, not letting up.
Even in these times, perhaps more than ever, I love the wind. It’s the world breathing. It’s like God’s hand, stroking, nudging, pushing me forward. It’s God’s wordless whisper, “Bruce, wake up, wake up, wake up.”
The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth. – John 3:8
That’s okay with me. My job is not to know but to listen.