I hate it. I don’t like the wind. Ruining plans, changing the landscape. Things breaking, falling, in the current of breath which prunes and scatters.
It strips the deadwood and blows the fertile seeds, driving out both as they leave behind the familiar. And whatever was left behind, stands—forced to become stronger in the resistance. All this for the purpose of a greater harvest someday.
But for the nostalgia that spring is, my friends are sneezy, no one’s sleeping, my kids are cranky, and I’m dizzy to the point where my only goal of the day is just to remain upright.
Nothing inspires more than new growth and a vision for what might be. But the turbulence enabling this to happen is the part I’d rather have behind me as quickly as possible.