Blowin' In The Wind

How many times must a woman say yes

before there’s nothing more to give?

How many times must she fall to defeat

before she collapses in grief?

Yes, and how many times must she listen to lies

before she finally cries?

Woman overcome by gusts of wind

There is a shift within – I feel it.

And I’ve become keenly aware of the wind.

The wind moves things:

My skirt flaps against my legs.

A paper is snatched from the stack on the table.

Tufts of grass dance and my hair billows into her embrace.

Eyes too tired to cry

How many dreams can one woman dream

before the canvas goes black?

Yes, and how many times can she try and try again

before the tries are all gone?

Yes, and how many times can she turn the other check

and pretend that it just doesn’t hurt?

Wind moves things.

I see that movement everywhere – and when I see, I feel.

Flowers bend and leaves wriggle on trees; a sting on my face.

A petal ripped from its flower far away floats toward me and settles on my arm –

barely a tickle

Wind lifts debris and takes it to unknown spaces, the void, a breeze against my heart.

How many times can I let go

before I am free from the fear?

How many steps must I take in the dark

before I can see my own spark?

How many voices must I chase into the night

before I hear the wisdom in my breath?

Being still

Lately, I’ve been attracted to the wind because wind moves things:

Chimes tickle ears.

Trees crack, fall, and destroy.

Voices are muffled. Or carried far away with absolute clarity.

Wind is forceful, even violent. And it is soft, even soothing.

Wind moves things –rapid turbulence ripples over the river, rustling murmurs rise from swirls of falling leaves.

Wind moves things - my clothing, my hair, my papers.  

Wind takes things away and brings things in.

There is a shift within – I feel it.

Lately, I’ve been attracted to the wind because wind moves things:

Wind is the movement of air, all air, even the movement of my breath.

Body expands and recedes.

Chest rises, belly settles.

Deep sighs, audible.

Wind brings to me unexpected surprises.

One of them is the lyrics to an old song,

“The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind. The answer is blowin’ in the wind.”

This isn’t a trite platitude, rather a call to stop the inner chatter, to stop the clogging clutter, to just stop.

Stillness when the squirming is all consuming.

Silence when reason demands attention.

Patience when irritation feels urgent.

Trust when doubt is heavy.

Faith when fear is debilitating.

Stop.

Breathe.

The answer is blowin’ in the wind.