Wind (357)

It so often happens. I use a word or a phrase, or one comes into my head, and there it will be that same day or the next as a crossword clue or answer. It feels like a subtle game, a play, a frolic with words. Someone or something connecting in with me. See we noticed, or heard you. You are not alone, it is not what you think. You are being acknowledged. You count. Is this fanciful on my part? Some would say yes. I like to think that there may be a possibility for such a connection. Beyond the veil, so to speak. He would say, why not, if it makes you feel better. Does it? Not always. Connections like those also require a responsibility, an awareness, a culpability for one’s actions. Either way, I remain open. Yesterday it was the title of my journal. To and fro.

The wind howled last night. Furious. I had to shut my window in the end. I don’t like doing so. I love the sensation of fresh, live air coming in as I sleep. But last night it was making me agitated. I remember our horses in the wind. They would chase around the perimeter of the field, legs kicking out, manes flying. Walking into it was hard going this morning. It is wild, frightening at times. It is abating now and the sky is blue. Though the clouds are still sailing by at quite a pace. The first morning with the heating on. Winter is coming. Too soon.

My writing is just as hard going at the moment. Sometimes it is like that, he says. Don’t give yourself such a hard time.

Listened to Peter White on the radio, in his Blind Man Travels the Globe series. I like hearing him so much. What must it be like? I rely on my eyes too much sometimes. He is so courageous. Or at least so it seems to me. He was in San Francisco. He gets to know a city by it sounds, it smells and its people. He talked to a homeless man. People are at ease with him. He asked why he was homeless. My parents sold the house, he said, and bought a SUV. Just like that. No self pity, no recrimination. He gets by. Bless him.

Dentist this morning. Then work. Another toing and froing day. Not much time to write today. Heigh ho.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.