The Breezes

I regret the warm breezes, sometimes. Though they gently persuade me towards a loose-limbed springtime, it means another season has come and gone. It means that again this year I didn't wear all my sweaters; in fact every garment in my closet has aged another year and inches closer to being a relationship better measured in decades than years. That may say more about my wardrobe than my age, but I guess we all have a bit of Dorian Gray in us, clues to our own age maturing in parallel with us in some closet or attic. Perhaps I have an unhealthy connection to objects... I feel like in their mute stillness they are the nodes, the bunched fabric of our memories' spacetime. True, simple objects are cues not as explicit as a photograph of a loved place or loved one, not as captivating as an old song or remindful scent, but they carry a fair amount of power.

As do the breezes. No shortage of poetry, some triter than other, credits the winds with the ability to usher in the seasons of our minds and hearts. I guess I'm not speaking of such transformation, just a whiff of temporality passing through. Maybe a flash of time standing still only because it's being observed, like the split second of a spinning wheel appearing still when you flick your eyes in the direction of its rotation. And then you feel the contrast with that quick stillness, the ever-spinning wheel, the immutable marching of time... that's what makes you feel like life's game is played on such a slippery board. You can dig in and skid or you can lean forward and skate and glide, maybe spin. I guess there is only that choice, and we know from Locutus of Borg, resistance is futile.

I was saying, the breezes, yes, the breezes are what bring me to this state of mind... we spend so much time rowing our boats facing backwards towards the wake, watching our ripples and the shoreline recede into a fuzzy reverie. Rarely do we turn to face the coming waters, except for an occasional glance to make sure we don't bash into something embarrassing or dangerous... rarely do we face forward to see the bumps and curves in the road, for we are inured to our inability to see around corners, at least we have learned that lesson. But the breeze reminds us that it has traveled far to finally arrive with its vague message, that there is indeed yet far to travel, that we still might ought pause and turn to take in the view ahead.