It is the season when the defining characteristic of this place is not the light, nor the earth, nor even the water we again need so desperately, both to sustain life and to prevent fire — no, at this season, its salient feature is the wind.
Here in this place, Wind deserves the respect of capitalization, the deference due a proper name. It is, after all, a thing in and unto itself, a fully actualized spirit, a physical being: one of great power . . . and great capacity for destruction.
In our way, we define the four elements as Earth, Air, Fire, Water (although some traditions elsewhere in the world add a fifth, Wood). Wind is not listed among them by its proper name, although it clearly falls within the category of “Air.” It makes sense; after all, air is air, and present whether the wind howls at gale force or falls still and utterly silent. But here, at this time of year, the wind is such a powerful presence that it seems a willful diminishing of its identity not to acknowledge it as an elemental force.
At this hour, it is merely s low breeze, albeit not a warm and welcoming one. It leads with an edge that is icy cold and razor-sharp, and it behaves much as a scalpel: The initial cut is so clean that the skin barely registers it at first; later on, the full force of the pain sets in, its effects all-encompassing. Before the day is out, those painful gusts will arrive as surely as the rise and set of the sun each day. On this day, if the forecast is accurate, they are pulling in heir wake another storm, drawing it down from Utah. At this elevation, that could mean snow if the temperatures remain low tomorrow morning; if they do not, it could mean rain. It could also mean nothing at all; recent forecasts have failed to account for the shape of the valley in which we sit, and the tendency of the winds to part the gale around the peaks, only to rejoin in stormy unison on the far side.
Still, even as the storms and much-needed precipitation miss us, the winds themselves pay close attention to this spot. The trees that Wings planted here so many years ago all now stand at distinctive angles, their growth patterns shaped expressly by each year’s powerful spring winds. The willow boughs, delicate and yet strong and supple, are sent nearly horizontal by their force; the aspens quake and shiver the clock around, while the cedar and piñon dance in place. This year, the winds have ceased their predictable patterns, now often raging through the night, and it is not unusual to awaken to creaks and groans and whines and wails that rival the voice of the erstwhile spirit thought to inhabit every region of this state: La Llorona, the wailing woman, she who seeks her children, because, like Rachel’s, they are not. Her story is not one indigenous to this land, but an eminently predictable outcome of colonial behavior, and I have my own thoughts as to how the events recounted in the story might really have come to pass, entirely apart from contemporary mythos. Suffice to say that in my imagining, act and actor vary substantially from the accepted version, and with that, notions of fault and blame are likewise apportioned very differently. Lack of fault, of course, is no barrier to transcendent grief.
In our way, the winds are conceived in a variety of ways: as forces of the sacred directions, as guardians and gatekeepers, as blessings, as trickster spirits. In this season in this place, it is easy to imagine the wind as Trickster; It expends inordinate time and energy in destructive pursuits, seemingly for their own sake. It rips the nascent buds from the trees, breaking branches and hurling them to earth; it kicks up the sandy soil, grabbing it in a feverish embrace and whirling, dervish-like, to fling it outward at all within reach, blinding eyes and cutting skin. It fills the air with dust thick as the smoke of summer wildfires, so much so that by day, it veils the peaks as efficiently as any snowstorm, while by dusk it turns the sun into a flaming orb with outlines fully visible. It possesses a powerfully sharp wit and a vicious sense of humor, one given to practical jokes whose “humor” seems apparent only to the spirits themselves.
There will be wind today, although perhaps not as frenzied as in recent days. If it brings with it the promised snow, it will be worth the shuddering stance, the labored gait, the stinging skin and eyes that will be out companions through this day. And in that, perhaps, lies its greatest lesson lies: in the stark contrast between its presence and its seeming absence, between the buffeting our bodies and spirits endure at its invisible hands, and the peace that comes when it tires of toying with our world for a few hours.
It’s a reminder that comfort is far more fully appreciated when it is upended periodically. It is in the contrast with pain that we most fully comprehend pleasure, and perhaps the one cannot exist fully actualized without the other. In our way, the whole point of Tricksters’ existence is to teach us, repeatedly, those lessons we mortals are most prone to forget.
Wind teaches us to appreciate what it brings in its wake, whether that is the rain the gives us life, or the peace that makes it pleasurable.
~ Aji
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