they call the wind...

The wind blows where it wills, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know whence it comes or whither it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit. John 3:8
It is a sound peculiar unto itself, the sound of the wind in a pine forest. As you stand in the middle of a long leaf pine forest, at the foot of the tall slender giant pines, the sound of the wind in the top of the trees is a sustained soft slow blending of the wind’s energy and the tree’s swaying. I first heard this sound in the pines across the road from my father’s childhood home. I was playing cowboys and Indians with my cousins, running amok through the woods, high on let’s pretend and riding my favorite pretend horse when I was caught up in the sound. Even as a child I felt the difference, the quality, the call of that sound. The winter wind moves through the treetops and scarcely ruffles those who stand below. Even the strongest winds sound gentle and the windsong is comforting.
Here on our hill in the mountains, the wind is a constant presence in our outdoor life. When the winter wind is blowing, as it is this morning, it has a sharp edge and a splintery feel. The sound of winter wind as it whistles through the bare trees is a gathering of individual notes. Sometimes the shrill soprano voice of the wind is most clearly heard and other times it is the bass rumble that sweeps through the woods around our house. This winter wind cuts to the bone as it passes by, sweeping away all that is in its path. It takes all of your energy, not to mention your long johns, to stand in this winter wind and not be consumed.
No wonder the New Testament writers used the wind to describe the movement of the spirit of the holy. There are endless variations in our experience of the wind... the winds of the desert, the winds on the Texas plains, the winds of the Rocky Mountains, the winds at the beach... the winds that blow and the winds that caress and the winds that challenge. All the same and yet different.
This morning I find myself standing in the middle of winter winds that are pushing me, prodding me, not letting me rest. It is the first of the year and I am restless, looking once again for ways to become more wholly who I was created to be. How can I learn to get organized, keep up with the stuff of my life and free myself from the confusion and chaos that trips me up? How can I give my creative self permission to claim time for itself without first feeling like I must have the house clean, the clothes washed, supper planned and cooked, bills paid, cows fed, the sick visited and the poor fed?
As usual I find myself living in the land of Either Or, not Both And. Structure and order are the walker that keep my creative self upright but it is so hard for me to use them. Much like Daddy O who is now using a walker, I do little jigs and fall over, off balance first one way then the other. This day, this week, I will first listen for the song of the wind, the wind of the Spirit, before I begin my day. At the end of my day, I will again listen for the wind. Perhaps this is the key that will unlock the closed door to the deeper layers of who I am called to be. I pray the Winds will blow that door wide open, flatten it against the walls so that I might see New Light, the Epiphany Star, and the Holy Babe who lies in his mother’s arms, waiting my arrival, bearing not only casseroles but also calligraphy and art journals. May it be so, Lord, please?