“Wind”

That which blows hard through hill shafts of southern California carrying fire wherever it wishes to go unless, “No, no!” I cry—not Wind, not air moving swiftly enough to push the water of Puget Sound up into massive Marcel waves, not “Wind,” the noun, but “Wind,” the verb.

I meant to write about winding, a movement; I meant to use the past-tense, wound, about PineAweigh having moved through some troubled waters, but I ran into trouble using “wound,” which led me to change course –as we did, many times, on the day I hoped to describe. I wished to use the verb, wind, but I got snarled in the multiple meanings English provides. 

“Wind,” verb, an action—what I do with knitting yarn, what a baseball pitcher (not pitcher as in what holds a volume of liquid (not volume as in degree of sound, or volume as in cubic capacity, or volume, meaning a series of printed sheets of paper, or a stack of editions, no) and while I’m at it, not wind, meaning to crank. If you consult a dictionary, keep reading down, down, to the third definition of wind and find the transitive verb meaning to coil, or turn, “the state of being wound.” What I did with yarn; like the state of my mind as I write in this pre-dawn morning.

Oh! Not Wound as in “Ouch!, Oh, look at what I did to my shin when PineAweigh repeatedly crashed into troughs between massive Marcel waves (not the verb wave, a hand motion, or a  wave, the verb meaning to dismiss a notion). No, not a wound on my shin, but “wound” (as in the sound, “Wow!” without capital letters or an exclamation point), the past tense of the transitive verb, wind (that which I do with yarn, not the noun that blows); what we did with PineAweigh recently when we wound around the Bainbridge Reef lighted buoy #4, wound around the corner of Point Glover in Rich Passage, wound clear of the path of the oncoming Washington State Ferry (which will suffer greatly from the recently passed car tab initiative), wound our way into Phinney Bay, to a fuel dock first, then to secure PineAweigh in her covered winter berth (not birth, as in the emergence of new life from a likely wearied mother, or birthing a creative idea).

I meant to write about winding, a movement; I meant to use the past-tense, wound, about PineAweigh having moved through some troubled waters before she was settled in her winter slip, but  . . . the magnificent, sublime English language captured me. I got distracted. As I am by this last sentence where I used the word “Sublime.” That’s what I will write about next: a new blog category, a new work of wonder winding Himself through spaces between our feet, under our sofa, curling up deep in our hearts: “Scooter Sublime of Heron’s Key,” a nearly-three-month-old mini Goldendoodle; the newest member of the Pine family, a heart-healing, four-footed, under-footed, seven pound apricot-colored pup fallen fresh off his family tree into our lives.

Coming soon—Scooter Sublime