We feel its effect on our bodies as they react to this unseen force. We get goose bumps on our arms, or our hair blows across our face; our clothes ripple in its wake.
We smell the aromas of places it's been, whether it has brushed over a freshly mowed lawn or past our neighbor’s smoker; we can smell what’s coming behind it as it sweeps across the earth picking up the scent of its petrichor.
We see its effect on the things it touches. Trees sway, water ripples, and soap bubbles are whisked up and away, yet we can’t see the force that moves them.
Wind moves the clouds across the sky, giving evidence of layers of the wind as higher clouds move silently in one direction and lower clouds casually drift in another. At times this movement causes the clouds to clash violently, wreaking havoc on those of us below who have no control over the skies, who can only seek shelter from their power.
A gentle, controlled wind can start a campfire or blow out a candle, or it can brush the hair from our face. A strong, unpredictable wind can spread a wildfire, then it can clear away its smoke; it can reduce buildings to matchsticks or carry massive objects to other places.
The same wind blows on the rich and on the poor, on the kind and the unkind, on the young and on the old. It is present to all in its path.
Does the wind ever rest?
When the air around me is still, is it still for the whole earth? When it rages around me, swirling and howling, does it do so everywhere? Does my turbulent wind calm, or is it simply that it continues its journey, leaving calm behind it? Does the wind get weary? Will its breath ever run out, or does it just move ever onward?
Can I capture the wind in a jar?
Will it still be wind if it stops moving? Does it become something different if it is still? If I catch a piece of wind out of the sky, will it still be wind in my jar?
The wind in my jar no longer spans the universe, reaching all people, affecting everything.
The wind in my jar is no longer gentle and controlled, or wild and unpredictable.
The wind in my jar no longer moves clouds or trees, bubbles or water.
The wind in my jar no longer has aroma.
The wind in my jar no longer gives me goosebumps.
The wind in my jar no longer breathes.
The wind in my jar is no longer wind; it sits in my jar, unmoving, unmoved, known.
The wind in my jar is no longer a mystery.
Writing about widow life, grief, and general random ramblings.
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