Wind

I read a few memoir pieces tonight. Pieces written by others, not by me. I sometimes read and re-read what I have written.

Memoir pulls me, as does poetry. Tugs at a part of me that cannot be described with words. It's a similar pull as when I hear bagpipes, or the fiddle, or the wind as it tussles in along a mountainside.

I can hear the wind before it reaches me.

I like the wind.

Wind at night, across empty spaces, reminds me of a hitch-hiking trip I took while in The Way. My assigned hitch-hiking partner and I started out in Emporia, Kansas, and hitch hiked to Tinnie, New Mexico.

Hitch-hiking was a requirement in The Way Corps. This particular trip to Tinnie was at the end of November, 1982. All of us Way Corps hitching to Tinnie had an allotted amount of time to get to our destination. If we missed that time allotment, we had to turn around and hitch back to Kansas.

That was the rule, always.

On this trip, my partner and I got stuck in Amarillo, Texas. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Over ten hours stuck. Ten hours was a long time when we were on a deadline.

In the wee morning hours around 1:00 AM, the wind sounded lonely. From Interstate-40 I gazed across the flat plain to the south. It must have been a clear night, with moonlight. It was cold. I had on my down jacket. My breathing was heavy, a bit wheezy with asthma. I was fatigued. I could hear the echo of my breathing within the cowl of my hood.

I'm sure I must have lowered my hood off my head. It was my habit to do so. I liked the cold at intervals on my head and ears, kind of like the cold side of the pillow when I sleep or sticking one leg out of the covers.

There were few cars or trucks at 1:00 AM in late November on I-40 right outside Amarillo.

As I gazed across the plain to the south of the interstate, I saw tumbleweeds roll. The wind like an invisible giant index finger flicking the giant weed balls so they roll to some unknown destination.

I listened, the wind's call like that of the call of the wild.

Like bagpipes. They too are a wind instrument.

Breath is like wind...tiny little winds escaping my lungs and pulling in air again.

African drums too. They call me. Times I've played with others in drum circles. Our hands beating out traditional West African rhythms. Our hands which slice the air before the slap on the goat skin.

Air. Without it, there would be no wind.

Breath. Air. Wind.

Bagpipes. Drums. Memoir.

All tell a story. Stories that are carried across the winds.

My partner and I made it to Tinnie but missed our designated arrival time. We had to turn around and hitch back to Kansas.
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