March wind

I won’t be able to capture the wind in pictures or in words. It’s best if you see and hear it for yourself. Of course, you cannot see the wind at all, but on a day like today, it expresses itself on the two-dimensional canvas of the river. It plays with the reflections of the sky and the far bank. Ripples ripple. And again and again, the wind dives, swooping towards the surface of the water from high up in the scudding clouds, scattering edges of light and water. And then it disperses. Or so it would appear. Where does the wind go after these flurries? All you see is the dancing and swirling, and then the river is flowing on downstream as if nothing has happened.

I watched the wind working its magic on the surface of the river. It’s an appearance. The full substance is beyond my human grasp.

I had walked less than two miles through an East Lawrence alleyway. When I reached the river, I scrambled down the near bank past broken chunks of concrete, bundles of rusted wire half buried in the soil, an old car door. The remains of last year’s leaves filled in some gaps. And there was plenty of just ordinary trash.

I was careful descending. The bank was steep and the footing was not always clear. I tried to keep a hand hold where I could. Then I sat near the river.

I have waited to tell you that when I approached the river bank, a great blue heron had flown from near the spot where I would sit and had flown low across the river to somewhere near the far bank. There were gulls circling upsteam. It might have been a bald eagle soaring above the trees. I saw where the majestic bird rested on the bare branches of the trees on the far bank downsteam.

I hadn’t known that it would be the wind that I had come for. I watched and listened. And while I wish that I could say that we had a conversation, it wasn’t that. The wind was speaking and I was trying hear. The wind was painting a water mandala and then instantly blowing it all away. What did it mean?

It may all be appearances, I suppose. But for me to be there for such an appearance for a few moments is the kind of gift that am often given. It is part of why I walk. Walking is the pace that let’s me catch of glimpse of the appearances around me. I am, after all, a being, walking in time. A ripple rippling. If I am paying attention, I can feel the wind caress my face.

There was a moment when the wind opened up just enough space in the drifting white-grayness that the blue sky beyond slipped through into my eyes.

And then I stood, turned, and scrambled up the bank, mostly on all fours.

When I reached the top of the near bank, I headed off into the wind. She was blowing from the south on this windy morning. I would hang streamers from a long cane pole and clean up some of last year’s growth in the garden. It’s March, coming in like a lioness.