Yesterday I went for a walk in that same wind. It was blowing in from the edge of the world. (There is of course no real edge, not literally, but there is a sense of liminality that you can get even standing in the middle of a suburb, surrounded by ordinary old houses, or on a rambling meadow, or sailing the river, or downtown. A feeling that somewhere else is just there, one layer in, one breath away, one blink of the eye beyond our vision.)
Breathing the wind, I felt wilded. And I felt that if I went back to my house, my bedroom, my furniture and books and things, I would shut myself off from the old and profound sense of home that wind was giving me. Wild home. Home on the earth, at the tail end of forty-some years of memories, in the season, in the feral quiet. Home is not some place. It is our being, our longing, our soul which is the liminal space between this earthly self and that otherworld.
Knitting the Wind is featured today at Inhabit. I feel honoured, and I hope you may be inclined to visit there and say hello to Lisa, and read her wise and beautiful posts.