The Language of Wind

There are nights when the wind feels alive — not just as air, but as presence. Last night was one of them. Out here in the quiet countryside, it moved through the trees like something ancient remembering its shape. The branches bent and swayed, making way for its passage — a choreography of grace and surrender. Shadows rippled, light shifted, and the whole landscape seemed to breathe with it.

It wasn’t just the trees that moved. It was as if the earth and sky were speaking in a language I had always known but never learned to name. There was a pull — both eerie and welcoming — like being invited into an old memory I didn’t know was mine.

This morning, the wind has stilled, but its lesson lingers. Becoming, I think, is not about changing. It’s about remembering what has always been speaking — the rhythm beneath the noise, the quiet truth inside the moving world.

The Language of Wind

Last night, the wind spoke in a language older than fear.
The trees bowed to listen.
Light slipped between their ribs,
and shadows rippled like breath across the earth.

Everything moved as one body—
a living symphony of grace and surrender.

And in that moment, I understood—
to become is not to change,
but to recognize what has always been speaking.

Spell of the First Wind

Before breath had a name or form,
the wind was the voice that shaped the storm.
It taught the trees the art of sway,
and whispered, all returns someday.
To stand and listen is to obey.

With Grace & Ink,
Mai