The many names of the wind

I have always wondered what the wind thinks of us.

We give it so many names.

Wind, breeze, gust, whisper,storm, and Zephyr.

We name it according to how it touches us.

When it is gentle, we call it a breeE.

When it passes through our hair on a warm afternoon, we call it pleasant.

When it enters through an open window and moves the curtains , we hardly notice it at all.

But when it becomes strong enough to bend trees and tear roofs from houses, we call it a storm.

The wind itself has not changed its identity.

Only our experience of it has.

Perhaps people are like that too.

The same person can be someone's comfort and someone else's pain.

Someone may call us gentle.

Someone else may remember us as a storm.

Some may know the quiet version of us.

Others may only remember the day we finally broke

The wind never asks what name we have given it.

It simply moves.

It travels across oceans and mountains.

It touches places it will never stay in.

It carries the smell of rain from somewhere distant.

It moves through fields, cities ,empty, roads and crowded streets.

It touches the face of a child and the face of an old woman.

It passes over graves and gardens.

It enters the homes of strangers.

And then it leaves.

Perhaps that is what I love about it.

The wind belongs everywhere and nowhere.

It does not need to be seen to be felt.

It can remind you of something without telling you what.

Sometimes, a breeze touches, my face and suddenly I am transported somewhere else.

To a childhood afternoon and to an open window and to a place. I have not throught about in years.

The wind carries no memories of its own, yet somehow it awakens ours

Maybe that is why we give it so many names.

Becaus3 we are always trying to describe something thàt refuses to stay still.

A breeze when we need comfort.

A gust when we need change.

A storm when we are afraid.

A whißper when we need to remember.

A Zephyr when we want to give beauty to something invisible.

But perhaps the wind does not care what we call it.

Perhaps it only wants to move.

To pass through.

To remind us that not everything has to stay.

Somethings are meant to arrive without waring, touch us briefly, change something inside us and disappear.

And maybe, oneday, I will learn to be like the wind.

Not always gentle.

Not always understood.

Sometimes a whisper

Sometimes a storm.

Sometimes nothing more than a breeze through someone's life.

But always moving.

Always becoming something else.

Never asking permission to exist.