I know the magic a breeze can carry. I remember rushing to the top of Pricilla Avenue under a long awaited spring of my childhood. We lived at the belly of an indentation that cradled summer cottages and a few permanent homes. After my house, the road took a sharp turn east, changed its name and plunged into the bay. The steepness of Pricilla’s neck never held me back and neither did the strange looks from our fair weather neighbors. As soon as our back porch wind chimes sang, I would take off, straight up the middle of the street, dodging potholes and sandy patches along the way. My seven-year old eyes were drawn to the line where the ocean had sewed itself to the sky and the only way to see that far was from the hilltop. There was a sort of vision I had as I charged upward, to be lifted from the stack and carried gracefully towards the blue seam. And if I had it my way, a magic breeze would take me there.
Not every swoosh or gust brought the magic. It had to be right. The branches had to dance in unison. Ruxton’s weather vain, his roof marked the highest point on Pricilla, had to creak twice before it spun. I could sense the moment as it built and refused to blink even once. Tiny sea oats flew in like fairies, swept through my hair and borrowed me from the present. Once my eyes glossed over, I spread my arms, took impossible breaths of salty air and let myself fill with powers that rolled off the harbor. And just like that, the outside world, which I found exhausting, fell silent and peaceful. The relentless fighting between my parents faded away. Kathy’s brother came home and their father took an eternal vacation. Good grades and perfect appearances didn't matter and I wasn't “that odd child” anymore. Best of all, I had wings to fly.
In retrospect, the wind saved my smaller self. It gave me the superpower to let everything go and be free when I deeply needed breathing space.
This picture is of my kiddo, mesmerized by our late to arrive, spring breeze. I called her name five times before realizing the powers at play. Her disconnect was intentional. Like mother, like daughter she was far off in the distance…dreaming of the lift.