Fresh

I’m no fan of wind — it’s my least favorite element, punctuating my least favorite season. Even as a collective unfurling is palpable alongside color palette transitioning from brown to green, barren to vibrant, I catch myself holding my breath. The winds of transition force me to steady myself beneath the air traffic it amplifies to a roar, walking my kids to school in blowing gusts that sting their little eyes and fill my daughter’s dress like a sail. Breathless, have I just walked down the road or cycled through a washing machine? Hair blown into face, wisps caught in mouth, is a tactile sensation but there’s no feeling of contact — grounding — in wind.

Katherine May describes in her book Enchantment her difficulty meditating in-flight — “It is not a simple matter of movement. It is instead about contact. Mid-air, my attention has nowhere to sink — just an unsteady void below…” Feels like a description of spring’s air, its wind. Unanchored, flux, transition — turbulence.

The only means I’ve found to harness the season’s often subtle rays of hopefulness as we long for brighter days and warmer temps, but the breakthrough just hasn’t happened yet, is to tighten my ponytail and run right into it.

On the run, the only space my perspective of the swirl shifts — an intentional entry into the chaos, the often turbulent ride — that moves me from confusion to clarity. With curiosity, I inquire — What’s on the other side of these headwinds? If I wasn’t such a cold water wimp I imagine feeling similar sensations from cold water swimming — shock followed by clearing, settling… a spring cleaning of sorts. (Swimmers, let me know?)

Sometimes
You must
Run into the wind
and allow yourself to be
swept away
cradled, held
In the turbulence of the season
you are in
only to be returned to the ground — to yourself
empty, cleared
Fresh

Can you run into strong winds and feel it?