We went out just as the wind began to rise. We made our way to the top and rambled, in no clear direction, through the sagebrush; radiant in the dusk and fragrant in the damp cool. There was no hour of golden gloaming tonight, no heat of a setting sun in tall grass, winking over the edge of the mountains and projecting pink on the cloud bellies in the East. All was muted, hushed, grey and waiting for the grip of the storm. I heard the roots of the cheat grass wend deeper underground, gaining a better grip on duff and stone, preparing for siege under the blaring cannons of the rain.
This summer, on numerous occasions, I have been high enough on the mountain to see the top soil of the Snake River Plain rise up in furrows beneath the blades of plough winds. Tonight I watched the billowing grime swing up into the valley, a brown mist eating into clear air. I pushed the hair from my eyes, felt the first raindrop on my cheek, turned on my heel, called in the dogs and foot by steady foot I raced the storm home. The wind grew in might. I wondered to myself, if this air with all its invisible power could pick me up, where would it take me, where would it finally set me down?
As I walked, I looked up through the strands of blond hair flying at impossible angles about my face, I felt my shirt whipping at my back and arms, watched the sage quiver madly and squinted against the force of the storm. I saw the wind do its heavy lifting. I watched it hold aloft the ancient skins of a thousand stones, the grit of the rivers run dry, spruce dust, sage pollen, lost birds, the rain.
What if! What if it could lift me skyward, toss me heavily heavenward, rumple my hair, tear me in two and two again only to whimsically deposit me here and there across our world? Where might I end up and would I belong there, fitting into new life and land with patience and grace, ready to work and serve to the same degree as a grain of topsoil that lands quietly at the root of a wildflower?
The rain came on then and I began to run, sheltering my camera beneath my shirt, shouting in surprise at the brute force of the raindrops; the sky broke open and it poured. I ran like that, all the way down the mountain, all the way home, haphazard and wild, as free and fated as anything carried by the wind and once deposited on the front porch, out of reach from the storm, I realized I could be grain of sand, feather of bird, drop of rain, or pellet of pollen lifted up and set aside by the breeze — I could be any of those things — and like those tiny pieces of life that find their way skyward and then earthward once more, I will always end up exactly where I am meant to be.
I have the great pleasure of being published in the first volume of Bella Grace this summer. You can find not one, but two pieces of my writing in this magazine, complete with images. I’ve been given a copy of the magazine (which is more book-like than magazine-like, to be honest – truly lovely) to give away here. If you would like to enter your name in the drawing for it please leave a comment on this post for me. If you are shy, just say hi! If you like, tell me about where the winds of life have taken you, how you made the most of it or how you celebrated, how you WISH you might have made the most of it, how it transformed you or how it shifted your life perspectives. I would love so much to hear from you and wish, to the moon and back, I had one thousand copies of this magazine to give away.
This post of mine is part of a blog hop that includes most of the contributors to the first volume of Bella Grace, read what they have to say about life (and the exquisite beauty therein) and besides being inspired, you’ll find many more chances to enter your names in drawings for other copies of Bella Grace.
Thank you all, as always, for being here.
You make my world go round.
Please pardon any delays on comment moderation — I’ll be away from my computer for a few days.
GIVEAWAY CLOSURE: September 15