The pinwheel turns but the weathervane doesn’t. Something there about utility and whimsy, about whether knowing about or immersing in a thing is more like the thing itself. Does fire reveal the true property – ash, air? Wind carves too. Sand and dust, rock, rush. And then water. Movement all. All elemental. What are thoughts? Earth. I suppose. Made of me. Me and a spark and a drink and a breath.
With wind in our ears it is hard to overhear. Laughter catches easily, like burs in shoelaces, we take our listens with us as we walk. It is better to react than drown in them. Even droplets in a fountain bounce back up to breathe.
It is good to wander. This is a universal truth. It is good to stay home. It is good to come home. I will not tell you what is bad. You know this for yourself.
Bells hold the wind and sing it back. I imagine church bells savor this best. The best part of church was the singing. The best part of church was being loved. Is there love in the weathervane? Is there love in the pinwheel? I know there is love in the wind. There is love in the shoelaces. I loved learning to tie my shoelaces. I must remember this when I walk places. Feet are so much of childhood, of becoming big, becoming worn,
Let us soak. Let us invoke the sense that us is who we are, and this us is sinking its feet in the fountain, the us is the sound of the wet feet drying on the hot concrete and dipping in again. The us are appreciated, they are put into socks, led to wander, led home.