Feel the Wind. Feel the Rage.

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Rage like wind blows through the land. It is powerful. It is mesmerizing. You only hope that when it’s over that the damage is minimal. But right now as it rages, you wonder.

The Santa Ana winds are blowing today. Out of the Northeast they race down my street, blowing the trees to bending and rattling the awning above my window.

I usually love the wind, the way it wakes me up and energizes me. That was the wind I grew up with, the cold, wet nor’easter or the wild stormy winds from the west. But here, the wildest winds come from the desert to the east and are warm and dry. They are unsettling. They make me anxious. They often increase the risk of fire in this arid land.

This country has become arid, unable to hold the moisture of compassion, the fluidity of uncertainty. Will the rage that is blowing now enflame us all?

The wild Santa Ana winds can wreak havoc. The damage they do may be a few downed trees or raging fires. But they also clear the air and make it easier to breathe as long as fire doesn’t rise.

Maybe it is time to rage like the wind, to call on Santa Ana, the mother of Mary, the grandmother of Jesus. We could use a powerful mother and grandmother right about now. She has long been the patron saint of my family. We went on pilgrimage to her shrine in Quebec every year to ask for healing for my brother. And he was healed. He never exhibited the worst symptoms of his condition.

Rage ignites us. We feel it because something is terribly wrong. We can no longer let ourselves or others be harmed. We can no longer allow the Earth to be damaged. She has her own rage and it knows no mercy. The raw power of Nature has been unleashed on Earth and within the women. The unheralded cry of the banshee whips through us, through the land, through the construct we live under.

Feel the wind, feel the rage. Let it clear the air. Let it blow through and let it make your eyes water. Let’s turn this storm into one of tears. Let our rage rise, let our passions be roused so it may reveal the compassion that is waiting just behind the pain. The wailing of the banshee need not herald our deaths and the death of the planet. It can be a cry to take down the destructive construct of patriarchy and our interior walls of hate and shame.

The wind continues to rattle and rouse everything on my street. My rage continues to rattle my heart and rouse my soul. But the tears are what will prevent the all-consuming fire and bring healing. And when they flow my world works again. Eyes and heart wide open we can face what we’ve become and know it is not who we are. We are ever becoming even as an eternal flame, steady and strong, burns at our center.

In the wails of the banshee I hear her heart sing, “You are wind. You are fire. You are earth. You are water. You are One. Don’t try to contain anything. Let it flow. You always dance on the edge of creation. When you take your next step, who will you be?”