The Wind

I am working through some things, given all life's changes in the last few weeks. This virus thing is nothing compared to what I've encountered and the very least of my worries. Don't get me started on what I think of this virus thing. 

A metaphorical tornado swept through life and I'm doing my best put on my bravest face. The destruction is both deep and wide.

Then along came to a very real tornado in the midst of everything else going on. I spent a few days cutting up trees, working and waiting patiently for my garden to set (which it has) and sprout (which it is doing). 

My wife is working on a literary analysis of a section of Ann Petry's 1946 novel, "The Street".  The novel opens with descriptions of the wind-swept city street, which is an implied metaphor of what the main character feels inside. 

There is not much more to say except I thought of these two songs:   

and the bluesy sound of

To conclude: 

We can only grow the way the wind blows

On a bare and weathered shore

We can only bow to the here and now

In our elemental war

We can only go the way the wind blows

We can only bow to the here and now

Or be broken down blow by blow