Nature's Choir

My hair whips in the wind as I walk. A million arms dance, like an octopus swimming.1 I wonder what Pine thinks, as I walk blindly through snow toward my cabin. Like a creature from the sea.

I snag a blowing tendril, unfurling its fingers from my forehead. Holding it off to my side like a wing.

I like a good breeze. But wind can test my patience. I’m frustrated that I still have silly things I allow to throw me in a tizzy. (Tangled hoses. Leafblowers. Loud chewing.) Today, the wind is inviting me to be better. Insisting that I breathe.

I do. Long and slow and deep. Air spills over my teeth, cold. Into my lungs. Still.

Jumping from my fingers in a trice my tendril makes a run for it. Bungeeing about like Tigger’s tail in House at Pooh Corner. A crackling spark from a bonfire…free. It locks hands with a rogue spiral, kinetic, hooking a small curl into the corner of my mouth.

I laugh out loud. Marveling at the accuracy of her cast. Even in chaos, Nature’s a far better angler than I.

Plucking the curl from my lip, I pull a rubber band around. Turning two times, twist, until a bun. I can see now, with the hair out of my eyes. Blinking.

Soft flakes falling from Sky. Dusting branches heavy with cones. An indigo crow. Opalescent.

A few quick taps, then nature raises her baton again. Her tailcoat rustling in the pines. Slow and rolling, a gust. With notes of juniper and wet grass. And sun.

Crow stretches his wings out. Horaltic. Cocking his head to see if I’ll join.

I let my hair loose. And we dance. Alive.

Animated by the wind.

Being able to shift perspectives — and be shifted — is a magical thing. Like potions in a cauldron, inhaled. A tonic for opening up worlds.

I think about this a lot. About what it would feel like to move through the world from only one perspective. Stuck. Like a passenger on a train, with no windows.

In some way, we can’t escape this. We’re inhabitants of our own skin. Bound to a human perspective. So there’s that. But there’s nothing saying that we can’t expand our vision. That we can’t learn to see colors or hear notes before undetected.

Shifting perspectives opens up new ways of understanding.

I’m reminded of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, and one of my favorite visual adaptations of it — a claymation rendering that I affectionately refer to as (wait for it!)…Clayto’s Cave. (Ooof).2 In the myth, prisoners arms and necks are fettered, forced only to see what’s in front of them. Behind them a fire burns. And between them and the fire, people and animals coming and going, casting shadows on cave walls. From the perspective of the prisoners, the shadows are what’s real. That’s their world. But behind them and above, entire universes.

When I stepped out into the wind today, my lack of patience could have gotten the better of me. Gawd knows it has many times before. But today, I refused. Deciding instead, to accept Wind’s invitation to be better. To take off my shackles and see more.

I’m pleased that I did. Had I not, I would have missed so much.

My hair coming to life, possessed. The sweet smell of wet grass. The iridescent glow, and dance with Crow. And Nature’s baton.

Orchestral members in her choir.

And a whole new perspective.