Notos, the south wind
“Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time. I worship each god, I praise each day splintered down, splintered down and wrapped in time like a husk …”
If Annie Dillard is correct, and each day is a god, then many of our recent days have been gods of wind. Today (again) we are living through the god of the south wind, gusting over 50 miles an hour. In Greek mythology Notos, the South Wind, was a dynamic, stormy and dangerous wind – but in Greece of course he was associated with the dessicating winds of summer; we have yet to see such a thing as a dessicating wind on this rainy Outer Hebridean shore. Curiously, given that there’s so much of it here, Celtic mythology personifies weather much less.
I’ve always had an ambivalent relationship with wind. There’s nothing finer than a wild winter storm, especially in places like this where you can stand on the beach, point yourself in the direction of the wind, hold your arms out, let yourself fall forward – and still be held up. One of these days I know I’m going to fall flat on my face when the wind drops out suddenly, but nevertheless there’s something exciting and invigorating about it, and about returning home with a salt-encrusted face and a head so light and clean you could float. But when you want to work outside, or just go for a quick walk along the shore, this much wind can be a major deterrent. And not just to humans: the pigs stay in bed, snoring; the hens stay on their perch and can’t be bothered to lay any eggs, and the polytunnel door must remain closed, risking damp and mould. The sheep on the common grazings cluster round the field gates, waiting to be let back in. Most mornings when I take the dogs for a walk I have to fight my way to the headland, and when it’s raining as well the combination is blinding and even the dogs want to turn and run home.
But there is little point living in a place where the dominant weather is wind and rain, and then sitting indoors complaining about it. There’s certainly no point in avoiding it. So we go out anyway, lift our heads up and open ourselves to it, rather than close ourselves off from it. It is the day that we have. A day of rainy gales is the kind of day that personifies the Outer Hebrides, and a day, like any other, to worship, splintered down and wrapped in time like a husk …
Sharon
