Wind

The manual doors at my favorite writing spot—the dining area at our local grocery story—have been mostly locked for the past several weeks. This always happens on very windy days. My guess is that the managers at County Fair are worried that a sudden gust will damage the hinges, or that someone might accidentally create a wind tunnel through the entryway if those doors and the automatic sliding doors on the other side are open at the same time. I’ve never bothered to ask

I do, however, love to observe. So when the wind blows, I take a seat next to the plate glass windows overlooking the parking lot and watch.

In my estimation, about half of the patrons who approach those doors notice the yellow sign asking them to please use the automatic entrance. They swerve from their line, some more gracefully than others, and walk around to the other side. The rest reach out and pull the handle, whether because they didn’t see the sign or because they saw it and still needed to try it for themselves.

Discovering that a door you expect to be open is, in fact, locked, can reveal a lot about your interior world. The stoics among us lower their heads and move on, the world apparently having met their low expectations. The entitled try the door again and again sometimes again, unable to believe that this door that is locked for everyone else does not make an exception for them. My favorites—the demonstratives—will throw up their arms and sometimes curse, much to the embarrassment of any spouse or child who might be with them.

I know, I know. It sounds mean and maybe a little cruel to intentionally take a front row seat to watch other people’s frustration or embarrassment. But please understand—I’m not doing it to feel superior. Every reaction sends a little jolt of recognition through me. Depending on the day, I might respond exactly the same as any of them.

That’s true for most people, I think. We like to imagine ourselves as consistent beings, but something as simple as a locked door can trigger us into not only thinking the universe is out to get us, but showing that feeling on the outside.

The wind doesn’t help.

I grew up further south, where a 10mph wind constituted a breezy day. Here in Mitchell, however, the year-round average wind is 11mph, making this among the windiest states in the U.S. Calm days are rare. This spring, we’ve had days on end with sustained winds at 20mph, sometimes gusting up to 50mph.

It wears on you, this constant wind. It doesn’t carry the destructive force of the tornadoes I feared when I lived further south. Still, it serves as an invisible yet omnipresent reminder that as an adult, something is always pushing against you.

In this, my 48th spring, I’m more aware than ever of the constancy of wind. Metaphoric tornadoes in my life have been mercifully few. I’ve had neither more nor less than the expected tragedy for someone my age, and when bad things have happened, I’ve always had people there to help with the clean up.

Middle age, though, lacks the drama of youth. It is less about crisis and more about fatigue. You have fought the wind for so long, and not gotten as far as you hoped. You’ve found that some doors are locked to you, and someone else holds the keys. You keep moving—you have to keep moving—but you are acutely aware of what time does. The violent storm can topple trees, but given enough time and grit, the wind can level the mountain.

Not the most encouraging thought, of course.

But consider flipping the metaphor. I can think of myself as the rock, blasted and worn down. Or I can think of myself as the wind, striving against granite, chipping away. For all the pitfalls of this season I’m in, it does come with a certain amount of perspective. You learn to play the long game.

I’m not entirely satisfied with that way of thinking. I have not outgrown the all-too-human desire for life to come easy, for obstacles to crumble right before my eyes. And I know that winds will shift, and people will lock doors in response. Some of those doors will never open, no matter how hard I work or wish.

But I don’t get to choose the nature of the universe, only how I live within it. And so, futile as it may sound, today I am trying to make time my ally rather than my enemy. I am picking up what is within my reach and hurling it at the mountain.

Today, I am the wind.