I’ll write later I always say. Then I never do, or at least not much, at least not until much later when this morning title is leeched of most of its meaning.

Not today. Why? Because I woke up wanting to write, wanting to get my fingers moving across the keyboard, swirling thoughts coalescing, attempting to find some path. I stand around and look, at the trailhead, bags are packed, mostly, the backpack is secure. There only remains to take the steps outward.

As for this day, of the external world, it is, I believe, called monsoonal moisture. A tropical storm swirls counterclockwise over Mexico, a warm storm. We don’t get that, at least not the brunt of a nameworthy storm. No, we lie along the edges of the spin, about the same location on a storm as this planet is in the galaxy, off on one of the more obscure arms. Blas prefers his southern neighbors, and gives to us only scattered clouds and the possibility of thunderstorms later.

Red tint in the eastern sky, the ancient augury, made more accurate by satellites and newsmen. Still, nature confirms. Something is comforting in this.

The fluid life is one which requires time. Letting loose the soul to be stirred with the rising wind insists that the wind is not rushed, nor artificially created. During a lull, one waits, watching, feeling for the stirs which mean renewed movement.

Waits.

Most of society now care little about the wind, at least cares for it little beyond its effect on well coifed hair. We’ve managed ourselves past the need for natural dependence.

So we think.

The wind still blows and we are called to drift with it, catching its power as our own, lifting us up and beyond our natural bent.

Most folks now prefer to row.

They advance for a time, while those with sails sit. Until the wind picks up. Then the sails fill, those who trusted fly past, those unprepared are buffeted by the change, bothered by the motion, unable to harness the power, and indeed stifled in the movement.

A wind from the east seems to be stirring.