Listen to the Wind

Recently, I spent a month away from my friends and family in the Mongolian steppe, the land of the great blue sky, and almost nothing else. One evening, after dinner had been cooked and the tent had been pitched, I wandered just far enough away from camp to be completely alone. At the Northern edge of the Gobi, there are no birds singing, no crickets chirping. Only the whispering wind from the North is audible, but it does not break the silence. The wind is the silence, the unpspoken voice of Nature that, if you listen closely, will speak to you. This is what She told me (from my journal):

I am alone at last. It is not so much as being here, but not being there, away from the incessant babble of a million mouths, just me and the setting sun. The wind bites at my face, but it does not sting. In a world without fences, your mind is left to wander, a helpless yet willing victim to the unrelenting power of nature. With every breath I take, I am dying, yet living. There is nothing left but love. I am alive.

Now I am back in the States, but I haven't forgotten what the wind taught me. But, when I try to convey my feelings to my friends and family, I can't seem to find a way to describe my experience. I am almost trapped in Plato's Cave, able to explain the shadows, the events, the people, but unable to convey my thoughts and feelings.