The wind

The wind this evening is blowing with a ferocity that I have not yet encountered here. It blows unaccompanied by rain, which is rare enough, and without identifiable direction. It blows with unpredictable gusts and swirls, and yet, it seems to blow with intention. The kind of wind that leaves me restless, and looking to the horizon. The kind that makes me want to lean into it, and inhale more than just the air that courses into my lungs: its mystery, its journey, its power. Strong enough that it could blow you down the street, but with a feel that is more as if it would blow you to another land; the kind of wind that must have preceded Dorothy's tornado, or Gulliver's expedition.

But perhaps I am already in that other land, and this wind has come to blow me home. There are days when my life here feels so disjointed from the rest of the world, that it seems I must be living in a land found only in a book or tale. I never see TV, and being so busy lately have gotten out of my habit of starting my day with the NYTimes/etc. Here, the world is Mae Sot, and the border. Even venturing to the other side of town seems an adventure. Only the periodic intrusions of skype reminding me that the place I left is really not so far from the one I find myself in now.

Everyone who knows me knows I love the wind. To capture it in my sails, to play in it with my kite, to feel it, breathe it, watch it, and listen to it. I relate to its wanderlust, envy its quiet power, marvel at its fury. It inspires me.

In Mae Sot the winds nearly always comes from the west, which is to say, from Burma. I ride into it on my way to work, breathing in the bits of that land which is the focus of my daily efforts, and yet which I have never trod. Perhaps today's wind serves to remind that conditions don't always stay the same; a fitting reminder for 8.8.08. That this wind might serve as a harbinger of change of other kinds in that same land, would be a fitting commemoration of this anniversary.