Blustery: bləstərē adj. (of a wind) Blowing in strong gusts

Today is quite possibly verging on blustery. I love the wind. It's presence carries some sort of mystical quality to it. It makes me feel as if I'm part of some indefinable something I don't entirely understand, but catch a faint spark of. It defies the mechanics of gravity; it trumps the tediousness of unruffled hairdos and stationary pages; and it tugs at my memory of places that seemed themselves suffused with the enchantment of things we cannot prove, but can only know. It reminds me of my favorite essay on wind. So, so beautifully put:

His death had nothing to do with wind, as far as I know. But maybe there are two kinds of people. Those who like their stories tidy, with a once-upon- a-time and a happily-ever-after, and in between a series of nicely demarcated scenes that rise when they need rise, climax when a climax is called for, and neatly resolve. And then there are the others, who are willing to follow a current, to feel it move discretely through a tangle of branches, to sense a gust of meaning shudder in the brush, to feel the ghostly fingers of the air lift their hair off their necks and leave a shiver up their spines—those who have felt, in all its unlikelihood, the impact of a kiss that leveled your soul like a freight train busting the night open in a small town, on a night of winds, a night of thrilling, elegiac winds. — D. Steiner, Elements of the Wind

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