Keyboard of the Winds

The Wind is the breath of the world. Constant in its blowing, it carries the fragrance of south sea islands to the polar ice, the dankness of steaming jungles to the baking deserts. Wind caresses the land and buffets it, moistens the land and parches it. Wind, the divine messenger, is never still. It follows the sun westward, then leads the sun eastward. It pushes Spring northward, then pulls Winter southward. Free since the birth of the Universe, Wind has blown through all the eons--never to be still.

To sleep with the Wind blowing over my face, is to have my Spirit take wing...

In Spring, my Spirit dances over the land on the fresh Winds of renewal--the season of birth and change.

In Summer, it soars to the stars on the gusty Winds of youth--the season of exuberance and dreams.

In Autumn, it floats in moonlight on the mellow Winds of maturity--the season of gathering and fulfillment.

In Winter, it whirls through dark nights on the tempestuous Winds of old age--the season of reflection, senility, and death.

And in Spring, my Spirit dances over the land on the fresh Winds of renewal--the season of birth and change.

To sleep with the Wind blowing over my face, is to have my Spirit take wing...

I love the wind. I've always loved the wind. It stirs the joy in my soul and sets my imagination to wondering from whence it comes and whither it goes. I've been at sea in winds so strong I could barely stand on the ship's deck, and I've had winds of spring caress my cheek as gently as an angel's kiss. I've known the winds of winter high in the Rocky Mountains to drive the cold like a million icy daggers into the marrow of my bones, and I've felt the hot, drying winds of the Sahara Desert suck life's moisture from my body. And still I love the wind.

For me, there have always been two dimensions to the Wind, that of my Spirit and that of the land. Although I've wandered the deserts and ocean shores of distant lands, seen the starlit nights of deep winter in the far north, and felt the tropical heat of the jungle, it is to the mountains that I always turn when the Wind in my Spirit becomes restless or tumultuous. For it is here, in the high mountains, where rocky ridges, bold cliffs, and jagged peaks resist the Wind and in so doing give voice to the melody of its song, that the Wind of my Spirit and that of the land sing in harmony. And it is here, where ridge, cliff, and peak coalesce into the keyboard of the Winds, that my Spirit joins most completely into Nature's chorus of praise to the Great Mystery that is the abiding source of us all.

Now is a wondrous time for me as my sixty-seventh year fades gently into memory, like a passing breeze. It is a time of reflection, a time of assimilation, where knowledge gleaned in the past and experiences lived in the present give spiritual portents of the future. It is a time to be, simply to be in the fulfillment of life. And it is a time to reach back and grasp the lessons of my youth, the seasons of my life, and put them in order. I have traveled so far, thought so much, experienced so deeply, and all I have done is come full circle to that sacred place called ignorance, wherein is born the never-ending wonder and awe of the mysteries of life and questions about their meaning.

From ignorance I have learned that answers are elusive creatures until we know the relevant questions to ask, at which time they become tricksters who guard well their secrets while leading with glee from one question to another question, each redefining the original query. Thus, while I find no pat answers from my years of travel or while wandering the keyboard of the winds, I am, perhaps, beginning for the first time to understand a few of the questions.

Keyboard of the winds.

© chris maser 2006. All rights reserved.

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