Ocean Beach, San Francisco. 2015The wind animates, blowing the tops of trees like drunken heads. Swaying together to a song that reminds them of their high school days. Unsteady and accidentally rhythmic.
The wind animates, shivering the full length of tall blades of grass. Like the hairs on my forearms that extend themselves atop goosebump mountains. White-blond flags of surrender.
The wind animates, swirling the chimes on my lanai that speak for the breeze. Like an interpreter hired to make some foreign tongue beautiful. To give it voice in the familiar shimmers and clanks of one’s home.
The wind animates, whispering everything alive. Everything that gives itself to the gale force, surrenders to the this-way-and-that-way waffling. The gentle push and pull. Letting go of the exhausting need to be upright constantly.
The wind animates, surfing the birds. Like prima ballerinas bending into the shape of sails for their partners, reactive pedestals, to display. The supportive arms of wind currents.
Like the supportive arms of my father, moving me as a sleeping babe from the safety of his shoulder to the cool-sheeted crib below. And every time an internal gyroscope startling me awake with the feeling of falling.
Forgetting to trust those arms like birds trust the wind. And eventually learning that hard-earned, skinned-knee alleyway lesson: Even when you do fall over, you can get back up.
Remembering this as I bend over curled toes the moment before jumping into frigid waters below. Anticipating the sting. Knowing the risk, and needing to jump anyway.
Like a baby bird on her first flight out of the nest. Feeling that she's falling and yet trusting her wings to guide her. Trusting that she will not continue to fall.
The wind animates, catching and lifting. Until suddenly, as if by magic: She knows what it is to fly.
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Credits
Accompanying music: Itasca by Elskavon & John Hayes
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