I have been spending a lot of time thinking about the world outside of my home. I do not spend much time out of doors, which hurts my soul in a way that nothing else does. Over the last few days, the winds have been violent, the air freezing to the point of chilling the bones, and the sky has been dark and covered in a grey blanket. Some days have been better than others – most mornings I wake up to a blue sky and soft breezes and warm sunlight, but there is always that lingering chill in the air. I know that this is Winter’s time, and I am grateful for the respite from the heat of the desert the rest of the year, but there is something foreboding about these clouds that drift overhead, something dark about the winds that howl over the desert sands.
I have been drowned by thoughts of the wind… my breath catches when I hear it, battering against my windows; my heart races when the gusts pick up dust and leaves and bits of debris from the surrounding streets and yards; I am both calmed and excited by the smell of the wild on the breeze. The wind has stories to tell, and it is begging me to put pen to paper, to let the words flow. Wild songs of storms and hoofbeats across the red dirt and crumbling rocks, buried beneath the pale grass and manzanita and mesquite trees – my soul dances to their melodies, it longs for the vastness of this barren land teeming with life and magic. How can I deny my spirit?