noticing on a monday

It's Monday morning and it's unseasonably warm, but I'm unsure if we just had a winter or threat of one.  Is it spring now? Budding branches suggest yes.  

A strong wind sweeps up every un-tethered thing and last years leaves all crunched and brown get caught at the base of bushes and in the corners of fences. Newspapers and plastic bags tumble down sidewalks in a hurry. 

Thick grey clouds race across the sky, patches of light disorient watching eyes. Whatever the wind carries, it does so without delay.  Birds add their voices to the symphony and electricity fills the air.

This is to be alive, bare feet on the earth, heart swelling in a song with all living things, I am here, under a great power.  

I stream a violin concerto and turn the volume on high. I appear as a mad women roaming the countryside. In my head, I'm Jane Eyre or Heath cliff traversing majestic and moody moors.  I'm Elizabeth Bennett pondering all the enraging symptoms of love as she floats passionately through fields of wildflowers.  And without fail, I end up overlooking the roaring sea on a high and ominous, green cliff. It is true perfection, my constant dream.

Yet, my feet have not moved from the paved patio on a sleepy little street of boxes called homes. The notes mesh and disguise themselves with the rushing wind and I'm not afraid to look foolish, because no one else sees this tiny kingdom of magic. Other back yards are empty of wind chasers. 

A red balloon bounces along to join the other free and wandering things.

And I know, this is how to start our school day, so I call them outside, no need for shoes, no need for answers, come quickly, I say.  The music is loud, the wind is louder. In an instant, the girl with fire eyes starts moving. I cannot distinguish her from the birds in flight.  For the toddler, the force is still too strong and she holds on tight, but her eyes hint of wonder that will wait for future days. And the boy who inhales every motion and sound, he's blinded by the light that flashes through broken clouds and shaken by rush rush rush of the wind.  It's so much to absorb, as he is prone to do, so he stands frozen and dazed.  I cover his eyes and hold him close and say, just feel it, you are safe.  

We go inside to a table where blank pieces of paper and brushes await. The instructions are simple: paint what we feel, no rules, never any rules. She paints a happy world of trees and flowers smiling in the sun. He tells an abstract tale about ten thousand tigers fighting in the sky. 

We are not all ordained in the wind. 

We go about our day, finishing lessons, opening windows, cleaning away the weekend's mess. Music fills the air, and curtains inhale and exhale.  It all feels holy, this act of noticing on a Monday.

And I wonder...

Will they remember how we experienced communion with the music and the wind, ushering in a storm that will water us back to life. Perhaps, one day they will step out a front door and catch a particularly grand gust and it will all sweep into their minds as strands of hair cross into their eyes. A slightly crazed collection of memories of being called to feel the wind.