Last night the wind yowled around my house all night.
It got me thinking about movement and moving. Which I’ve done since the last time I posted here! My husband and moved from the golden hills of California to the green (well, sometime green — this winter they’ve been snow-covered) mountains of New York.
I moved because I love the yowling wind, both literally and metaphorically. Mark and I had gotten to a point in our lives in California where we were comfortable, easy, able to live in our lives without thinking too hard.
But imagination is never about stasis. It is about flow, even when it it is loud and untamable and a little scary like the wind last night (our house was creaking…).
Imagination is about adventures, and like a big wind, adventures aren’t comfortable. And they aren’t safe.
I fear that we’ve convinced ourselves that comfort and safety are the highest accomplishments possible in our lives, and in so doing, we kill the adventures we need to be more than just waiting around for death. We kill the instinct to imagine other ways of being, of being curious about what’s beyond that next ridge, of wanting to grow and change, and be blown by the wind.
I think we all need to part of a Dylan lyric from time to time. Answers shouldn’t be the only thing that the wind blows.
