Yesterday’s wind was full of promise and Spring flirtation; nothing I can write can explicate where it went and what it saw.
Today’s wind moves me from one to another, to the next, I can’t focus and as I reach for my phone, it is clear how we are taken advantage of. How our attention is stolen and our souls flung from our bodies again and again.
“Become the snowflakes,” he says, but I can’t remember the right mudra.
Yesterday’s wind is capable of rearranging just about anything: This dinghy leaked so badly we would need to refill it with air twice a day. When I brought the 20-gallon water jugs back and forth, the sharks would circle lazily like vultures waiting for the last rattle. And yet, I miss those mornings when the sides had become so deflated it appeared I was on a thin raft and the water would cover my feet but I would get to shore buy my morning coffee from the same bartender pouring whiskey for the locals at 7 am, and I would go back to the dinghy dock to watch rainbow-colored fish and pelicans divebombing them for a quick breakfast before the first tourists arrived.
“Wind by the Ocean” — Praise song for Oya Yansa. Tomorrow’s winds will always take us further.
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