Soul-Story: 'Wind Reader', a deep diving Explorer's story

There once was a man who could read the wind. He lived in a small village on a mountain, his whole body a finely tuned instrument of sensual breath-fuelled connection to breeze.

He'd studied the colour of sky and the smell of the clouds, which sang to him deep in his nostrils. He knew the taste of the soils from the far corners of the Earth carried in pollen and dust on the airstreams, and could feel like no other, when, and from which direction, rain would come. When the soft winds would rise off the field warmed by sunlight, his skin prickled in alert anticipation before the first breath of breeze could reach him, and when the dark thunderstorm was but a thought in the cloudy mind of the heavens, his hair would tense up, pulling his awareness into presence to the pressure that had only just begun to build into airy ripples of high rising columns, gathering momentum to make love violently far overhead.

The people very much appreciated his skills and fore knowing, which seemed magical to them and helped greatly the safety of crops and children and the wellbeing of the community. In fact, often the news of the good fortune and abundance of the village would spread to other places and travellers would come to the village to seek him out, to sit with him and try to learn his secret wisdom. The man would share what he could, but never too much, as he found it impossible to teach, express or explain how he knew what he knew or did what he did. So after a while the seekers would leave, often disgruntled and speak far and wide of the wind-reading man, blackening his name and belittling his skills, and feeding the secret shame he carried close to his heart.

In his books and journals he had studied the names of the winds from all the directions, exploring their strange sounds on his tongue and sensing their character until he could feel them blowing around him, rustling pages, in his room. Tucking at his clothes and slipping into his dreams, their airy whispers would tell of strange places, would try to pull him up, into their lofty embrace, ready to take him high and far into adventure and freedom, like a beautiful woman inviting him into passion and bliss, which he longed to explore, to own and belong to, but was afraid that he couldn't. His deep held fear of inadequacy would not allow him to open to the journey offered.

Often these dreams would leave him terrified, waking in clammy sheets on soaking pillows, acutely aware of his lack of wings, his inability to fly and the danger of leaving all that was familiar and earth bound, for a leap into the unknowable alien expanse of the sky that surely was death. And though his body itched and ached as if for release on nights like these, and his racing heart pounded in his chest like a great winged horse longing to be set free, he would calm his heart rate with concentrated control and hard learned yoga breath practices, and tether his feather-twitching skin by thinking of all the responsibilities he carried which were the mark of a man. These thoughts usually weighed him down sufficiently for him to stop feeling the longing for surrender and power, and his practice succeeded, at least for the time being, to mask the great fear of his lack of wings. He felt calmer not feeling the truth of his body and safer not fully living in there.

And so it was that with time, at first the view from his window seemed less wide and bright, then the walls of his home began closing in. Little by little the space became smaller around him, increasing his acute sense of un-ease and the growing urgency to move, his great longing for sky and breeze through his hair. But he found himself almost paralysed and afraid so afraid of outside, unable to stand the shadow drift of cloud, the thought of the sky and the taste of the wind. The villagers tried to coax him outside for they missed his predictions and presence amongst them. Crops didn't do well now that the foresight of weather no longer made life on the mountain abundant. The village dwindled and one day a great dragon of lighting ripped through the village without any warning, taking with it, in it's passing, with a sweep of it's tail, the school house, and two of the people. 

'What good is a wind reader frightened of air? What use is a man who doesn't even dare to live with the fullness of his gift? What use is he to us?' grumbled the people and they left him alone with his shame and his pain. He was hungry and cold, lonely and afraid, in the little small room with the windows taped off so no breeze could squeeze in, too afraid and ashamed to explore horizons inside him or out there in the great wide spaces, he hid in the corner trying to stay unseen.

Then one night the great Night Mare of the Sky Goddess came, bursting into that room: manes a flurry of flame, and breath taking terrible her tornado like tail. Wild lust in her eyes, flanks of black ice and sheet rain, dust devil neck whipping round, foaming storm cloud lips, coming at him to tear lose the great fear stored in his heart. A furry of neighing, hail stone teeth at his throat, great gleaming hoofs like hurricanes rising high over his head, baring down like thunder, shaking him to death.
Into darkness he fell, a great terrible empty, a nothing, filled with regret and life left un-lived, a small place of no breath and poorly formed shapes, hard to see clearly: his dreams and potential left stunted and empty. 

In that moment he choose to let go, to surrender, to give up all that had held on so tightly, being smaller then small didn't work any longer, to stay shut down no longer an option. His fear might be strong but his courage was greater, cracking open the frozen parts of his body, feeling the kiss of pain (or was it pleasure?), as life forced sensation into forbidden places. The only way through was to let go completely, was to feel so fully, to be so fully, to be it all: his sex aflame and legs stretching wide, arms raised up, this leap into faith out of shame is taking all that he's got. To reach, to reach, to reach, to explore the possibility of the possible .... and to take the reins of his destiny firmly in hand. No longer a question of permission or politeness, within him the place wanting life demanding to breathe. And the pounding, the pounding, the pounding of wings, with his terror and tears, breaking free from his skin.

HA, to take to the sky, to be one with the wind, the embrace of the air and clean taste of his freedom. Wild he rises up above fear and the shackles of shame that made him belief his own story of 'not good enough' and had held him down to the thoughts that for him it was impossible to ever take flight, earth bound and heavy; well look at him now! Choosing to become what he is and always has been, he claims his freedom, the passion and realm of his choice, his wild free responsibility, his joy. 

And the blood pumps strong in the whole of his body. Wind flyer, Sky rider, this is what he is made for, is made of, this, this is his form, his truth and his power. Great Pegasus rising free as the wind, his dance magnificent, shifting and swirling, painting dawn-like the clouds that he passes, he is part of the sky and his vision is wide. He can feel what is coming way beyond the horizon, with such ease, with such grace.... 

and the words of wind wisdom and weather ways rain down inside him like the knowledge of spells.

There once was a man who could read the wind. He lived in a small village on a mountain, his whole body a finely tuned instrument of sensual breath-fuelled connection to breeze. When ever he chooses, he takes to the sky and travels far with the winds from each corner of the Earth. Having embraced the Night Mare he resisted, he's befriended his shadow. Now he takes care of his village, his realm and his body, which thrive in abundance and health. Much loved and surrounded by life lived fully, he teaches his wisdom to those who come seeking, sky readers and wind dwellers, his pupils, his people, and he is home.