I like the sunshine here. I like that when the wind is cool the sun can still warm up my face and remove some of the chill that tries so desperately to make me think of home, the snow and brutal northern winters. Even the breeze off the ocean tempts memories of negative wind chills, but the roar of the waves drives those aches away and I smile at the beauty of this choice and this place. I turn my face to the sky more these days and I remember the solace in the sun’s warmth.
But the sun can’t shine all the time. And when the weather starts to move in I find myself eager and slightly cavalier. I like to stand on the edge of a storm. I enjoy the calm before the frenzy – the moment it switches, when the storm is upon us. Then the wind picks up and the trees begin to chant their ancient language and the water seethes. I miss the big leafy trees though, not that they have leaves in the winter back home, but palm trees hardly make a sound. It’s sad that they should be so statuesque and yet add little aural ambience. But I recall the rustling of the poplars and maples, their fevered shivers of an impending storm, the occasional snap of a branch too ripe with growth. Their whispers and sweet nothings filling space in the lull. Their lisping dance to the perfect chaos of the earth’s movements. The wind – it chills me to the bone.
Down by the ocean I love to feel my hair tussle about without regard, the wind whipping at my face creating rosy blotches – wind-kissed cheeks my grandma would say. But upon its folds the past remains to exist. Familiar smells waft on by, hushed noises, notable, like plays long forgotten from lives long since lived and they penetrate my senses. And the mind whips up such reminiscences quicker than I can catch them filtering into my thoughts. Even here I can’t escape the pokes and prods, the reminders of what once was – who I once was. And I compare. It’s that funny thing about memories. Whether they are good or bad I tend to keep them. It is difficult to be prejudiced to my own experiences. I write my life as if I am the winner of the war, but some events loom in the shadows. I do not always win. For I would rather be happy than right. And sometimes that fuels the storm.
But the skies eventually clear. The wind dies. The sun takes control and I and much of the living world cast our faces towards its warmth. It is always there. The clouds may block it, the wind may steal its warmth, but it is never truly gone. Even after the fury of a storm, when debris and disorder litter my known world, I know I can always look to the sky and soon, sometime soon, I will feel the sun shining down on me.