On an autumn day that ‘wasn’t fit’, I walked the river trail with Elsie. Not a fair-weather soul, I feel confined by perpetual sunshine and am happiest when willful winds blow. Few share this affinity as indicated by the deserted trailway. Because it was lonely and because it suited my mood, we walked longer than usual. We, in kinship with the river currents, made our way towards the sea. On this day however, the waters swelled in reverse as the ocean pushed back obstinately, sending the river backwards and inland.
In NL we say that it was blowing a proper gale.
I came upon a senior man. Portly. Lumbering. Though heading in the same direction, I was walking much faster than he was and overcame him quite quickly. At first with some trepidation. A woman accustomed to solitary trail walks is wary, especially when approaching large men. And this man was walking slow. Unhurried. Spine very straight. Awkward.
I spoke first then passed him. I have learned that on a windy day, my approach from behind is muffled. It is best to speak first, then to pass, avoiding the clutched chest and exclamation of fright. I didn't want to startle him.
Once abreast of him, his appearance surprised me. My silent descriptor was that his was ‘The LL Bean’ personality. We all have certain unspoken ways of ‘classifying’ others and this was my internal descriptor for his manner and dress. For me this entails a preppy sort of persona. He wore khakis and duck boots with what my husband describes as a barn coat: straight cut canvas with pockets. His hood was tied tight, as a child’s is, by the no-nonsense hands of his mother.
His eyes danced with intelligence. They resided under bushy white eyebrows and wire-rimmed, circular glasses. His appearance, professor-like.
Me: “Windy day!”
Stranger: “Sure is!”
Then I continued on my way; he on his.
The trail wound with the river; the occasional duck popped his beak up over the riverbank in search of the birdfeed carried by benevolent walkers. We outlined a path to the ocean, chaotic and wild, where we turned and headed back, retracing our steps. The trees bent before us, reluctantly surrendering their leaves to the squall. The wind blew mercifully at our backs for the homeward stretch. We had greatly outdistanced the bushy browed man and now, on our return, we approached him again, this time from the front. The wind battered him, his hood engorging with the breeze, a giant lung rising and falling.
As we neared, he spread his arms wide and looked up into the clouds through lens splattered with droplets.
Stranger: “I LOVE the wind. It has been BLOWING FOR A MILLION YEARS!”
He exalted, glee in his face, exuberant like a child. A full bucket, slopping over with the merriment that only the very young or very old can display publicly.
There was recognition there, under those bushy brows. We, the only souls hardy enough to brave the trail, were kindred spirits.
Storm Chasers.
Contrary Weather Worshipers.
In full fellowship with the day. In companionable support of the breeze.
And why not? Why rally against the wind? It has existed forever, earned its’ place in the sphere of infinity. Who are we to complain about the wind? Why not embrace it with radiant exuberance? With arms spread wide in unity.
I say, “Let it blow!”
For the wind is continuity, a joyous, weaving thread connecting this time with the before times and with the end times, linking this time with all time.
I am aligned with all past winds. I am a part of the terrain from centuries ago, swaying and pummeled now, as then.
Face the most antagonistic of drafts with gleeful acceptance. Step into alignment with the ancient wind.
What else is there for it?
Will YOU stop the wind? It has been blowing for a million years.
Love it!