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Archive for the ‘The Voices of Wind’ Category

“The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted, but few are the ears that hear it.”  Henry David Thoreau, WALDEN

Nearly two years ago, Joe and I moved back to a community after nearly 30 years of living in semi-wild places.  I had no misgivings about having people around, although we’d enjoyed solitude and space for so long.  People do not intimidate us; we remain true to ourselves in the midst of any crowd as well as alone in the woods.  Both of us have a blessed capacity for inner solitude which is the only kind that matters!

My concern in moving from a woodsy home to a suburban community centered on the fact that we’d completely relished our natural surroundings.  We had never tired of wild creatures for neighbors.  We had thrived on fellowship with sun, rain, and wind! 

In retrospect, I need never to have questioned the wisdom of our new environment.  We have deer tracks in the park outside our door, great blue heron and sandhill cranes flying over all summer, songbirds galore, muskrats in the nearby lake, and WIND!

Wind is something like your pet cat:  it is never completely domesticated.  Murmurs and innuendoes of wildness accompany wind wherever it goes.  The big windows in our condo home face a narrow lane, a wind tunnel open to the west wind as it whoops east.  The channel of the lane crescendoes the wind into moans, whistles, rumbles, rattles, and screams—the likes of which we have, in the past, heard only on select occasions.  Here the wind howls outside our walls most every day, in all seasons.  We’ve come to realize that there are very few windless days in Wisconsin!

I love listening to the wind while falling asleep at night.  I close my eyes and recall other occasions when wind was foremost in my mind:  changing a tire on a desolate road in high blown Kansas summer heat; venturing out on Lake Superior among the Apostle Islands, on an X-16 foot sailboat with two of our children and a dog—not realizing until our craft sailed out beyond a prominent point that wind is king on that great lake; watching from a hospital window during a horrendous blizzard, as the hospital flag whipped and swayed in the violent gale.

Along with reliving the winds I’ve experienced, I think vicariously of wind on the Yorkshire Moors–setting the atmosphere for Emily Bronte’s WUTHERING HEIGHTS.  And Scarlett, Rhett, and the Old South—in Margaret Mitchell’s GONE WITH THE WIND. 

Wind–one of the most destructive, enigmatic, and unpredictable forces on earth.  The voice of God.  The “poem of creation”!  I’ll never feel too civilized, trapped, or removed from raw nature in a home that is dominated by the whooping west wind!

Margaret L. Been, ©2011

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For weeks our home has been surrounded by silence—the silence of deep winter.  Only the whoosh of wind outside our windows, the whisper of sleet and snow, and the strident caw of hungry crows have broken the lifeless hush which set in around late November and continued through the darkest December days—into the new year.

But suddenly, last week, the silence broke.  Outside our bedroom window, we have an ornamental tree which has graced us with pink blossoms in spring, lush verdure and families of robins in summer, and lovely orange berries in fall and winter. 

Last week, the ornamental tree graced us with a flock of chickadees feasting on the berries, filling the gap of winter with their happy commotion of “chick-a-dee-dee-dee”.

I weep for joy when the birds and their songs come back.  Each day I go into semi-raptures over the cardinals in our front yard tree.  In just a matter of weeks, we will be “cheer-cheer-cheered” when the cardinals burst into territorial proclamations.

In about five weeks we will be able to make the hour trip south to Whitewater, Wisconsin, where we have traditionally seen the first returning redwings of the season.  Their “oka-reeeee” sends me into a state I cannot even begin to describe.

About the same time, the skies will fill with returning Canadas.  I will gaze upward, and wonder which ones are headed for our beloved northern home, to nest and raise their goslings along the Big Elk River around the bend from us.

And chortling robins.  And chattering sparrows.  And the joyous ringing of sand hill cranes overhead, sounding like hollow bamboo wind chimes on a gusty spring day.

Grace in the trees.  Grace in the skies!  Great is Thy faithfulness, O Lord!

© 2011, Margaret L. Been

P. S.  For a bit of funky fun, see “Frontal Lobes and Happy Genes!” on another one of my blogs:  http://northernview.wordpress.com/

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Earth dragon waking . . .

stretching, yawning, jaws cracking,

breathing winds of March.

 

Margaret Longenecker Been—All rights Reserved

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Flowers with Cobalt and Vaseline Glass Gone Weird

How I love to go to sleep to the voices of wind.  Last night I could have envisioned myself on the Yorkshire moors, with an apparition of Heathcliff floating behind the banging of shutters on an ancient grey stone mansion.

Actually last night’s wind climbed inside the slats of (not wood shutters but) the aluminum siding on our home, and rattled therein like castanets.  But the moaning had the tone of a Gothic tale, transplanted from the north of England to the north of the USA.  How soothing!

Wind up to a certain velocity is soothing; beyond that, it can be as terrifying as anything in the world.  While drifting off last night, I thought of the power of God–sometimes benevolent and other times earth shaking.  

The voices of wind that set our sails in motion can grow to decibels sufficient to destroy a city.  Orchestrated with fire or water–well, you know!

Most mind boggling of all to me, is how anyone can consider the voices of wind yet deny the sovereign power of our Creator!

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

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