We've been to the edges of our little island. Such cold and windy days, we have to be careful from falling straight into the sea. On these daredevil patches of land and rock and sand, I try to open my eyes to it. The gusts, the force, the might. I stand on a field of baby white flowers, they barely notice it. It's all I can do to keep upright.
Even on our road on a mild spring day, the wind knocks us back on the balls of our feet. There's a breeze INSIDE my house, my friend says, and she speaks truth. Rattling our windows and moving our curtains. The wind here is wild. My hair here is wild.
This week, headed into the city, we ran in place. Reaching for the bus with the wind holding us back, moving so slow but with so much exertion. It wasn't our lack of will, but the resistance. Arms of nothingness reaching round us.
In Kansas the wind brings storms, thunder, green skies. The humid warmth of them telling us secrets, "It's coming," they say. We'd open windows to the gusts, smelling the air. Thunderstorm day and we'd run out to chase it.
No thunder here, though; at least not today. Hardly even a drop of rain with these winds. It's just where we lie, up against the jet stream, surrounded by waves. And out my window I see the leaves, the buds of flowers. A tree already in bloom, tossed about and wild. I wonder how they hold on, these pale pink blossoms on the gale force days. How do the newborn leaves survive, the trees bent back, running away from the sea?
God made them this way. Trained for millenia. It's the only answer; it's in their roots. We've no idea how strong they really are.