The Nature of Wind

  I just returned from a weekend of camping in a beautiful state park.  Leaves were clinging desperately to the prehistorically tall trees, reminding me of millions of tiny, warmly colored flags waving in the wind to get the attention and hopeful support of those down below.  Instead of patriotically breaking out into some made-up national tree anthem, I stood with my neck craned to the sky and my eyes drowning in yellows, reds, and oranges.  The tiny flags whipped at their guardian branches until the limbs of the tree giants relinquished their loyal decorations to the quite demanding wind.  What a rascal that wind can be!  He toyed with the detached leaves for only seconds - twirling them around in his wispy fingers before letting them descend slowly on the wake of his tale and abandoning them to the mercy of the earth below. 

  I don't actually hold any resentment toward the wind.  It's one of my favorite elements, in fact, which is a good thing since Scotland is my other home.  Scotland is known for its heather, bagpipes, kilts, thick accents, and haggis, among other things.  When it comes to daily life, however, weather plays a huge role in the Scots' existence.  Abundant rain is obvious, even to an outsider, but the strength of Highland wind is something that new visitors don't necessarily expect.  I did not.  You see, rain does not fall sideways, but wind can force it sideways.  The first time that I experienced this "sideways rain" in Scotland, I was standing in the upstairs kitchen of the bothy on Eigg, happily putting the kettle on for a morning cup of tea.  I was still in pajamas and blissfully unaware of anything other than the fact that it was looking stormy outside but warm and cozy inside.  Soon, the mild storm increased to a gale, however, and it was "blowing a hoolie" as the Scots say.  I had heard the wind howl before, so I was not frightened of any flying banshees, but I had never seen the wind blow in a continuous horizontal state.  Tea cup empty, despite the kettle having boiled, I stared out the kitchen window in fascinated horror as the downpour turned sideways.  I suddenly felt quite a lot like Dorothy, just waiting for the house to fall to the ground in Kansas and wondering who my moral-lesson-learning travel companions would be.  A sudden swirling howl, and I went running for the living room, no longer Dorothy but a terrified child, seeking shelter from the monster that adults claim to be only a weather occurrence but which children see as a true threat.  I dove onto the couch and stuffed my face so far under Ben's arm I tasted cushion.  It took much caressing of my buried head, many tight hugs, and quite a few reassurances that our stone bothy could withstand the wind with ease to convince me that we would survive to see the next day (and not just if we asked the Wonderful Wizard for help).

  Now that I have lived through many more fierce weather conditions on Eigg, I will say that I no longer have to camp out in the furniture until they pass.  I have come to view wind and the other wardrobes of nature with a much deeper sense of respect, though.  The Highlands of Scotland are seen as a rugged frontier, and much of that is because Mother Nature claims them as her practice mat, art studio, resting place, and, at times, battleground.  She certainly makes life very interesting on Eigg, for better or for worse, but she also brings all those who visit Scotland a sense of clarity and appreciation of her beauties and power.  If you visit Scotland, you'll learn to sprint full-force into the dazzling light and take advantage of a sunny day, go on with outdoor tasks in the pouring rain as if everything were normal (as long as you're wearing your waterproofs), and take the time to truly wonder at the tiniest aspects of nature - even if they happen to be pretty leaves falling during a perfectly normal, perfectly amazing annual occurrence called Autumn.