I am the wind
Leafless limbs form pencil lines before the backdrop of the sky, buds glowing in the sun. Birds form a surround-sound symphony while preparing nests and feeding. A fly forms a shadow buzzing over the page, and E’s graceful hands lead her body in a gentle Bagua dance. Evergreen leaves rustle – sporadically nearby, a steady whoosh in the distance, and the wind that moves them brushes my face as I recall I am that wind.
I once thought I was the leaf floating in it, and I am that too, but being it means so much more. Being the wind is being the creator, a life force. It is complete invulnerability through total vulnerability. Nobody has ever been able to hold the wind, yet it has the power to define landscapes. It brushes the Earth ceaselessly, an invisible broom of incredible proportions. And yet, like the leaf, it has no control over where it would be or how. It is subject to the system that drives it, and like anything, its actions drive that same system. Nothing is independent: it can’t exist without the system; the system can’t exist without it. And so I am no more the wind than I am its system. None of this is possible without me, just as I am not possible without all of this. It is all the same.