The Wind and the Way

The Wilderness Within  By Steve Hurt

I sit on top of a rocky outcrop, a lone rock penetrating the forest canopy, surrounded by a vista of mountain, forest and a perfectly lit dusk sky. This is a magical, quiet place I come to find peace. Here in the spring afternoon, with birdsong saturating the air, the wind whispers its secret. So, I listen.

It carries scents of fynbos and wild flowering, a warm fragrant story of the love affair between the sun and the earth and its lovemaking. And when a living god presents itself like this I do not grasp, do not try to cling tightly. Sitting in silence I go to the breath. Breathing it in… out. And there, in this breath, a heaven scent, a fragrance of the centuries, an ancient sentient perfume. The presence of a living god.

The gods smell like rain, freshly fallen on hot earth. The crickets rejoice in their knowing.  My nostrils expand, take in this scent deeply, saturate this soul. The wind carries these gifts, of gods, of rainmaking, of a billion-year love affair and its depth and its vastness. Gifts of a god whose names we have forgotten, but who remember us and give us our every breath. And when the wind howls wild, penetrating lamentations of hollowness, of longing, we stand and feel her pain. This reed flute, hauntingly telling her tale, of wise old souls who walked the earth without trace, leaving scents of remembrance.

I call a prayer to this wind that still carries the old way to fill this open sail. Take me there, homewards to those furthest shores of love, carry me back to that place. And as the storm grows and the sky darkens, and the stars reveal the journey to shore, let me read your signs to navigate this ship to that love from which you emanate. Let this sailor’s heart breathe you in and fill his sails. Beloved, ancient one, we are bound in our yearning. Bring your winds of change, your scent of remembrance that guides the wayfarer to the deepest place of love. Let me surrender this vessel to your mercy, to your wisdom. Show me the way home again.

Look there. Murmuring starlings. A swirling, diving unison swimming through the air. Like a school of fish but with wind as their water. They are one and the same. An elemental dance of water and air, right here before me. I see the elements endlessly seeking union. A divine, living fractal of creation. It is the dance of life. The air is the same, it moves the same as water. Starlings, fish, the same. See how the air moves. The starlings show us secrets, invisible truths. A sea of blackness with their invisible love hidden in plain sight. Is it not a gift to watch dancers in love, moving for His sake? It is God’s unfolding. It’s an infinite embrace. It’s the Path, the Way.

But now the air is dead still, as though absent, but alive in its stillness. At its source, silence. See how when it moves in that bird’s chest, the rainbird calls rain. From inside those lungs the air forms words to tell us, making songs that human ears no longer understand. But not with the sage, she speaks from that other place. Her voice, the wind’s words. When she is speaking it is as though the words come alive, veiled in magic. Watch as the air moves, use the eye of the heart to see it. You will see that soul is breath. The sage knows this, she and the wind are one breath. This is magic, pure and true.

Look at how the wind now churns, turning the forest to dancing, making even giants sway. And when it recedes that ocean becomes like glass. A clear mirror-self. Now switch off the mind and compare a white capping sea to still glass. The wind points delicately to this magic. The wind rouses us, the wind turns us to stillness. But soul is neither of these states. This is the magic of wind, pointing to non-existence, revealing absence and presence.

The fish eagle’s cry, carried on the wings of wind. The wind a fetcher.  The scent of flowers, erased from this sacred mount. The wind a sweeper. Clouds covering sun, then revealing its brightness. The wind an artist. I soar with this wind, sky-high above the forest. The wind an eagle. Gentle melodies, leaves rustling, branches swaying. A musician too. Wind shakes the branches, causing berries to fall to the soil below. Look, the wind provides. Seeds buried beneath leaves, blown from branches above. The wind weaves new growth. Sapling piercing sky, the wind makes its branches strong. The wind a caregiver. Many beings in one, ancient travelling gypsy, seer of the sky.

The wind is not wind, rather it is sentience, it is a weaver. And yet it is not. The wind blows through us, but it does not define us. So, we sit in silence with the breath and look to where it points, without looking.

Beloved wind, if we pray to you and ask for your protection, do you heed our call? Or did we forget those sacred words of the heart that invoke your care. It seems that these days our tongues forgot how to speak your true names. To you we are mutes. Six hundred thousand words to speak this ancient art, but few true words we remember.

So, show us the old ways that call wind and sky and billowing cloud. We long to commune again. We are gods, like you, true cardinal points on earth. We gave you the names. We know how to love, but without you we are dead. So breathe on these hearts. Show us the million ways to bow our heads to the wind and sing our prayers. We wait for your voice to teach us what we forgot, teach us how to care for a god, teach us how to breathe as we call your name. Humbly we ask you to reveal yourself here again, because this soul loves, it loves you and all your mystery. This soul longs to find the Way. God of the old world, hear these mortal words that cry out, lamenting your absence. Fill this evening with your sweet murmuring soul so that each atom sings. So that I can touch this invisible presence and imprint this heart with the signature of a living, ancient God. Come rest in this heart. This is my call to you today and always. Beloved Friend, sweep this place clean with your art, blow these jinn elsewhere and bring fresh, new life that sparkles with infant joy and comes alive. Bring those messages, bring those precious gifts of your art, bring inspiration. Bring us your birdsong, paint this evening horizon, blow on this dust and watch these sweepers return the dust to the earth. Watch as we polish the ground with our prayers so that the light you reveal is reflected perfectly, and with precision. We know your artworks, yes, the great bringer of change, the sweeper, the voice of the saint. The birds remember. Their songs are your voice speaking. So, make me a songbird too.

And there, you answer. The song of the sea, carried on the breath of wind. You are the messenger. Everywhere you speak; sky, clouds, every song, stillness. You are the voice of God. This whole valley rings with the sweet presence of God. Yes, you are the bringer. We swim in your soup, ever immersed in prayer, always listening.

And through your signs you show us how your form is an unfolding fractal. Responsive, engaged. You feel our prayers. They make reverberations, touching the whole sky. Our prayers feed you, nurturing and sustaining, weaving harmony. I see how these words, the ones that flow from my pen, are your signature. Is it because these words are prayers spoken from a place of love. Beloved wind, father sky, they are offerings, and they come alive with the signature of love. Living offerings. Take them, they belong to you.

This afternoon I am a witness to how prayer brings new life to the air we breathe. And when you respond I witness how the whole hilltop comes alive, as light touches light. This silent merging union of souls. This sacred substance, it incubates our prayers and sends them back home. You are the weaver that takes our prayers to God and does our bidding. But not a god beyond, no, you are a god who is here, embedded inside this dark soil. Your breath gives it life. And from this love-act comes the magnificent gift of life emerging. You marry our prayers with the earth, merge Her with water and fire. And then new life is sparked. Life that is waiting to be born in this world. You are God’s breath, the bringer, the weaver and the lover, making soil come alive with possibility, with the substance of the future. You are the breath that gives form to the earth’s own song. So let us sing with your holy breath and remember your ways once more.

Slowly, with soft eyes, I see the. wind in the old way, like we see the light in a child’s eyes. It is soft and full and present in some other place where life is still pure. There is no preconception, and I surrender to this simple presence in nature. We are in conversation. Me and my elder, this wise invisible soul, this ancient being, this many-faced god of sky, my teacher and friend. I look to the sky, see the last light of day and the moon rising. It is full tonight, both in the sky and inside this disciple’s heart.