The storyteller

Windy days are exciting; they’re magical! You would never know what strange new thing or adventure the wind will bring you. Swirling in his arms could be anything… dogs, cats, a new bicycle, tables and chairs, that fancy tea set you always wanted, ancient books… anything, even a house! Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz can surely attest to that! But what I truly love the most is when the wind brings showers of petals... rose petals to my garden. It's an enchanting thing!

What is it with rain and wind and roses that so captivate me!

You can imagine my excitement yesterday evening under the wind! So many roses to deadhead so many shrubs to prune, and then there was this mad wind blowing and groaning and swooping up petals and leaves and things from the garden’s floor. How exciting!

I really love storms, all that power and energy amazes me. But what was I thinking pruning roses under the storm? There must be something magical in Nature—a subtle magnetism that so pulls me. Yielding to it must be the natural thing to do, right?

And thus there I was immersed in roses when suddenly everything changed. A mad wind came out of nowhere roaring over roof tops sounding almost evil. Fast moving clouds crept in, darkness came instantaneously. The air was wild with rose petals and leaves and I heard the trees murmuring; more like a wailing, their heads bowing to the roaring storm. Yet, still I wouldn’t go inside; not yet. I was completely under the wind’s spell.

I stopped what I was doing and stood in silence for a few moments, pondering the ground beneath my feet, the darkening skies upon my head, the petal covered earth spinning slowly in its dark socket. It was magical and wonderful and I felt this nagging urge to paint the moment.

Of course, I’m not an artist, but my mind is, and it can paint vivid impressions in words, quickly. Thus, I started writing a first rough draft of what I was seeing in my mind... right there: a witch—pruning shears in hands, dark wild hair blowing in the wind; billows of black hoop skirts flowing in rose petal twirls. Above her head the air was thin and the darkness profound, wisps of tiny flowers floated all over around her, birds busied themselves to nests and protected places and little creatures under her feet scurried to burrows and hideaways.

I then noticed something very peculiar. She wasn’t walking, but more like gliding along the rose beds; moving without moving her feet. And this long hair she had! Then something unexpected: The witch lifted up her arms to the darkened sky, as if begging the Spirits of the Winds to aid her and whispered something I couldn’t understand—a jibber of some sort, but the wind seemed to understood for it picked up from below her and rumbled and grumbled throughout the garden lifting petals and all sort of debris in response. Then, she was gone. Just like that. Gone!

Sometimes I wonder if perhaps this is the sort of impression I may be sending off onto my neighbors when they get to look beyond their windows and all they get to see is this peculiar barefooted wild hair woman pruning storms under a darkened sky ;)

Disclaimer: This is just the “storyteller” thinking out-loud. Any similarities to actual persons or places, alive or dead, real or fictitious is merely coincidental and the product of a feverish imagination. ;)

May your day be filled with blessings and may you be happy and feverish with imagination and swirls of dreams