A buzzing sound—what is that buzz, anyway?—is the only distraction in the den where I sit cozy under a Sherpa blanket sipping coffee in the company of words. It’s there every morning, that sound. I’m used to it by now and tune it out most of the time. It’s the light, or the cable box—something that puts another little something in the air that does something I’d rather not think about.
Anyway, there’s that buzz.
This morning there’s a fierce wind blowing outside. Strong gusts shake the windows next to the sofa where I’m curled up with a basket full of books and pens. It’s a warmish wind—a February wind, as opposed to a January wind that we expect to whip whorls of snow we watch, mesmerized from the comfort of our homes and offices.
This is a working wind. Rain might accompany it; I don’t know. It’s still too dark outside to tell. The wind will get rid of more snow that’s been melting and running in rivers these past weeks making everything dirty and messy. I welcome it.
It’s also a wind with a message reminding me that anytime I’m comfortable somewhere, there’s another’s somewhere where something rages and comfort is nothing but a fleeting imagining. All is not as it seems. There’s another place, and perception is reality. We’re wise to remember. To grant grace. To speak peace.
The wind rages and I whisper the names of those on my mind in prayer. I release the foolish idea that I have any answers and lean in to love instead. It’s windy here. It’s dead calm elsewhere. Somewhere a sparrow sings, another shelters from a storm, and still another lies cold on the ground.
Whenever I think I have things figured out, more questions come. There’s wisdom in that, I’ve come to believe. It’s in the mystery where real answers are found. And in the wind. Sometimes in the wind.