Another weather system has piled in over the UK, slamming into the western margins of the country. Charts show the jet stream wrapped round the country like a bandage, a thick blue ribbon streaming energetically. How visually mesmerising it is, winding around somewhere out there. And so beguiling in its strength when portrayed as a graphic on a screen. It looks almost benign, like a protective band holding things together, keeping everything in place.
In reality, it means that for the past few day, lows have been swirling in from the Atlantic, bringing heavy rain and strong wind. The sound of wind flaring around the house has been a wall of constant background noise. But living here, this is a familiar soundscape of winter. And there is some advantage of wind coming from a regular direction, because of the shelterbelt offered by the wood, and the position of the house at the bottom of a hill.
Even from inside the house though, I can hear the wind shunting back and forth between the trees, and thumping round the thick stone walls. The woodstove blazes fiercely orange as sudden bursts of air pump the flames. Candles blink in the slightest draft and doors that are not fully shut flicker in their latches. It sometimes feels like being on a ship, windows blind in the dark to the weather outside, yet sensing the wildness nonetheless.
I hear the wind cranking up during my sitting practice this evening. I can tell how strong the wind has become by the sound of nearby trees shaking as powerful gusts plough through the wood. Although the walls of the shepherd’s hut are insulated, they still form a relatively thin membrane against the elements. The metal cladding amplifies birdsong, acorns bouncing off the roof, wind and rain like a microphone. In windy conditions, the hut frame shudders, a slight shaking that ripples through the walls. This evening, I can feel the panelling I’m leaning against moving slightly as the gusts bowl in. My body flinches instinctively, countering the movement in a way that is not needed. I allow my back to ease and rest more fully against the wall. For a while, I simply listen to the wind ebbing and flowing, a mad rhythm of reeling surges followed by sudden lulls.
Sometimes the sound of wind in the trees reminds me of the sea. It has a wet sound, like waves breaking on a shore. I think it’s the movement of branches, rinsing the air, splintering through every bare bough and twig. Big energy on the move, the way the sea whips up into a boiling mass, breaks loose and then sucks back in on itself, before building again.
And like hearing the sound of the sea, it is soothing, listening to this wind stirring in the old trees nearby. I feel grateful that the hut is placed by the shelter of the wood, supported by the weight of its cast iron undercarriage and wheels. I can hear the bird feeders banging into the metal feeding pole outside the window. When I came out here earlier, the pole was leaning slightly in its sodden ground socket. And yet fleets of tits continued to feed, but swiftly, also seeking shelter, to-ing and fro-ing from the edge of the wood.
I was thinking about how the wind itself is neutral, yet sometimes being out in a strong wind can feel challenging and exposing, lacking in shelter, and relentless. I recall just last summer, falling into the shelter of a stone cairn on the summit of Quinag, a mountain in the NW Highlands, when the wind had got up and gathered in sudden force just between the saddle and the broad summit ridge, a height gain of not more than 100 metres. It was gale force by the time we reached the summit, not hazardous, but buffeting strongly enough to challenge balance. Hunkering down below the low wall of stones brought instant respite. But there was no hanging about. The wind was increasing and it was time to get off the hill as fast as possible.
Sitting in the warmth of the hut, I appreciate being tucked up inside on a wild night. And the simplicity of just hearing the wind. Like the birds feeding at the swinging pole, my mind is restless, slightly excited by the energy of the wind, with thoughts and ideas glancing off in rapid, vivid flurries. I think about the birds, hesitantly perching to feed, as if weighing up how to land securely. I make a mental note to fill the feeders in daylight. Then wonder why I don’t get round to it more routinely, and then what it is about routines that can make doing something as simple as this so easily forgotten. And so on. Thoughts about thoughts, freewheeling through the space of awareness. Just more thinking.
Again and again, I bring my attention back to the body, feel the firmness of the wall behind me, the wooden floor beneath me, knowing that below it, the wheels of the hut are anchored like the feeding pole into firm ground. My mind is like the wind, reeling off at tangents, scattered by its own energy, settling for a while before taking off again. From time to time I am jolted back into presence by the sudden banging of wind against the hut door, and the key rattling loudly in its lock. I rest in the lulls. I let the mind be.
Slowly, my mind begins to settle, attention no longer tethered to the wind or caught up in spinning thoughts. I am sensing into a stiller place, resting in the awareness that is already here, holding me in place. Holding everything that is present in the weather of the moment. I am hearing the wind, but not in it. I am watching thoughts, but not following them. The wind has helped me to recognize awareness, and there is nothing else to do.
Thought activity continues to play itself out, like the cacophony of sound. But I don’t need to modify the natural aliveness of the mind. Awareness has become its own support, offering space and shelter in the storm. There is something valuable about sitting when the weather of the mind is unruly like this, because it helps awareness to make space for exactly what is happening, including the turbulent. The mind can be carried away repeatedly, but it can always find a touchstone, a place of support, the way the birds return again and again to the feeder and find new balance. Awareness is always present. By the end of the session, I am feeling gathered, refreshed and awake.
When we allow the weather of the mind to be seen in all its energy and force, we are building deep reservoirs of possibility for responding to ups and downs, no matter what is playing itself out on the surface of experience. There is always so much more going on than just paying attention. The waves keep coming and the wind blows strongly sometimes. The boldness of the mind with all its energy and creativity can be a support to awareness itself, letting natural qualities of clarity and openness emerge within the turbulence. The wind is always just as it is, and the mind is always just as it is. Everything is arising and passing, in a continual process of change. Connecting with an open quality of awareness, we find there is always room for it all, an all weather presence, in the midst of the spinning world.
