The wind has been fierce off and on all month, proof positive that the authors and illustrators of my elementary school Dick and Jane books knew what they were talking about. Their spring pictures of windblown Dick and Jane struggling against gales that turned their umbrellas inside out, fascinated me. How, I wondered, could the wind do that to their umbrellas but not lift Jane’s skirt and reveal her undies? The lack of attention given to the undie scenario, much more common than ruined umbrellas, destroyed my faith in the Dick and Jane authors, though I still coveted Jane’s wavy blond hair and full-skirted dresses.
My windy day fears have increased with age. They’ve become more expensive, too. Will the silver maple drop on the house before the lawn dries out enough for the tree guys to come? Is the shingle I found in the yard yesterday an indication of the state of our roof which was redone not that long ago? What will my husband say when he sees where the wind tore the second story rain gutter loose? When will the wind die down enough so he can safely climb his new Little Giant ladder and fix it?
When I walked this morning, I stepped over the worries the wind deposited on the doorstep and went down the road. I leaned against the wind as it pushed me down the road. I breathed a sigh of relief when I descended the hill and reached the sheltered stretch of road where the wind didn’t reach. There by the bridge, amidst the grey tree trunks and bare branches, the willow tree stood still and faintly green. It was for me the first and slightest sign that winter will soon end, the wind will calm, and new life waits just beyond what I can see.
New, as yet undetectable worries wait beside them, I’m sure. But for now, the promise of spring gives me strength to walk past the worries to find the grace waiting in this windblown day.
