The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.
-John 3:8

The wind, sometimes it's cool, other times it is like the hot air rushing out of an oven while you poke at a batch of cookies. I want to be in the middle of a field in Montana, feeling the Timothy whip around my legs and breathing sharp, heavy air, while the wind whirs through my hair and makes my clothes tight against my body. I want to feel like I can soar away on a gust if I only run fast enough. I want to fly until I find the beginning, the end, its creator, its source. I want to fear the looming black clouds and smell the electric lightening whose jagged scar frightens and energizes me. I need the wind to blow me from stagnancy, to blow me towards love, towards home and towards my fears. I entreat you, forces of nature, my arms are spread and I'm wearing loose clothing. My arms are spread and I am ready to fly, I am ready to go.