Whisper of the Wind

I want to stop and study the intricacies of a flower without the concept of
time.

I want to count the beat of raindrops.

I want to sway in the breeze like the towering trees, heart fluttering in unthought-of rhythm.

I desire a lifestyle where if you say, “I’ll be back in 30 minutes,” it could mean three hours—and that’s okay.

Sometimes, I think I want to go live in an unpowered rainforest.

I want to witness a caterpillar metamorphose into a butterfly.

I’d find a deserted field and stroll through it with my hands brushing the tops of wheat stalks for no reason at all.

I’d bask in the cloak of solitude.

I’d swim in the sea of silence.

Give me an island for one day and I’ll return to you an island, untouched and set apart.

The urge to rid my environment of clutter teeters on some sort of invisible brink. I can’t see it, but it’s there—I can feel it, taunting my soul.

I want to let my hair down, run barefoot along some shore, and find God in the whisper of the wind.

I want to be and not do.