There’s something sacred about the wind, but I can never put my finger on it. Only that, when it blows against me, filled with all the smells of where it has been, caressing me and getting into my hair and clothes, I feel more connected somehow. As if it’s blowing away the layers of flesh that separates me from other manifestations of spirit.
And in that moment, I want to strip off the rest of what keeps me back and become one with it, scattered over the earth. Fully integrated into the realm where nothing matters because everything matters. Where all is spirit and all is one.
But then I must still go home and do my homework for tomorrow’s class. Not only encased in flesh, but encased within a minuscule niche inside a purely human context. Oh the juxtaposition. I know it’s good, and everything has its time. But some days I can hardly stand it.