A fierce westerly storm roared last night. The rain lashed our stone house and the West Wind sang strong in the treetops. I am a child of the Wind. My body came into the world on the Gulf Coastal Plains, home to hurricane, tornado, strong southerly winds, and great blue northers. I feel most at home standing in the power of the winds, arms outstretched and hair wild.
I went out into the beauty of it today. I walked down the lane to the crossroads I am cultivating. Who are the winds here? I know their relatives, the winds of Texas and the Gulf Coast, but who are these mighty winds of the Atlantic and Europe. I open myself to their song, to their touch, to the power of their Being. As I walk, I recite Yeats…
the Winds awaken, the leaves whirl round
our cheeks are pale, our hair unbound
our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam
our arms are waving, our lips are apart.
I run and skip and twirl on the lane. My hair billows in the wild wind. I see small rabbits hop into hedgerow, a pair of pheasant stealthily scurry in tall grass, and fresh spring rains fall, dancing, on my face. At the crossroads I stand, looking northeast to the undulating fertility of Sléibhte Chnoc Mhaoldomhnaigh (the Knockmealdown Mountain range), with its voluptuous peaks: Cnoc Seanchuillinn (hill of the old holly), Cnoc na Loiche (hill of the lake), Cnoc na gCloch (hill of the stones), and the Sléibhte na gCoillte (Galty range – Mountains of the Forests), with its ripening peaks: Ladhar an Chapaill (fork of the horse), Cnoc an Tairbh Beag (little hill of the bull), Cnoicín na Teanga (little hill of the tongue-shaped land).
The West Wind feels masculine, carrying messages from the Great Ocean Mother to Her Sisters, who recline in their pregnant state, birthing spring onto the Green Land. “Caress me, oh Wind. Kiss my Lips, dear lover. Wrap me in your embrace.”
The Host is rushing ‘twixt night and day, and where is there hope or deed as fair?