If the wind is called Mariah, like the song says, that explains a lot of things. How, for instance, she can be stealing off the lake outside my open window to caress me with kisses just now, when yesterday she was dope slapping me up the side of the head and pushing me off a narrow trail through the woods as if the love songs I was singing were a betrayal of our relationship. We do have a relationship. I love the wind by any name.

Let Mariah brush against my skin and I immediately feel free. It’s the illusion of motion, I guess. Moving air connects all things, eases breathing, declares the seasons, carries gossip via instant sensory details from the four corners of wherever you are at, quickens the blood and clears the mind. So, even if I’m only standing still in the wind, I have to say that Mariah brings the world to me in handfuls of enchantment, like a whirling carousel rich with sensual stimulation. You gotta love someone who stirs your passions in a way that cuts to the quick of your soul.

Anyway, you won’t find two sources that agree on the meaning of the name Mariah, which leaves a vacuum for every possible interpretation to fill. One thing they all say in so many words is that she is changeable and unpredictable. You cannot depend on Mariah…but you can count on Mariah. She is always there, bestowing her mood be it tornadic or tender. She may tantalize you with the fragrance of a lime green lily mingling with the dappled shadows of a light-laced lane, or blindside you with a twister out of left field, or cleanse your soul with a coursing backwash from the wings of the Universe on a windy night.

It is frustrating if not demeaning to wait for the wind to change, because you can easily become a spectator to her moods. Think of a day old puppy, eyes half closed, believing every touch is its mother come to feed it. That’s what you become if you subject yourself to Mariah’s sudden shifts. The carousel whirls too fast to reach for the brass ring, the music blurs into a cacophony of rage. You hang on lest you be hurled to the ground and the nether regions of her favor. Much better to court Mariah only in her silver moments of equipoise. That’s when she blows steadily across the spangled planes of a charmed afternoon. The music turns celestial, and the carousel slows evenly to the perfect tempo of a magical fantasy. 

I think westerly breezes have something to do with the gnawing urgency that marked the border of March and April for me. That’s because I changed my usual end-of-winter itinerary. Here’s how I put it in Facebook: “Seriously ill. Self-diagnosed. Bad case of wanderlust. This would be the day I headed west to Idaho if I was going to make it seven years in a row. Just finished a two hour phone call with my buddy and host Bruce who tried to talk me into hitting the spring crust up in Stanley basin north of Sun Valley. Tempting. Particularly since skinny skiing was so limited here on the Nordic trails this winter. But the drive was getting longer and longer every year with more stops and diversions, and I’m enjoying the changing of the guard here in Mini-snowda. Spring has sprung in my soul, and between the pool and the woods my dance card is filled…” 

Hang me by my thumbs for ignoring questions about the broken links to my columns on StorytellersUnplugged. I was hoping the 404 errors would be addressed. The other possibility – which I think I’ll pursue – is to upload copies of all my columns on my Authors Web Site. That last is a big order, and my life is always very full. I’m keenly aware of a number of promised things I’ve fallen behind on – posting T sax videos or those of adventures with Mickey Magic or answering questions, particularly those persistent ones about the love of my life. I so appreciate the interest that has been expressed. But you probably know me well enough to realize that I will not rob Peter to pay Paul, meaning one’s time is best spent living in the now if it comes down to a choice between that and merely cataloguing yesterdays. This does not diminish the past – and sharing it moves it into the present in a way – but you would not want me to be a museum. Much of what I’ve written about in those columns is active, ongoing and embedded in the present anyway. If I can underline that a little in these letters to you, I will, until I get a chance to create new links.

Hmmm. Mariah has just turned her affections in another direction, it seems. No more caresses through my open window. Ah, well, at least she’s out in the open. The two non-negotiable things in a relationship are honesty and faithfulness. She has always been fundamentally honest with me but never faithful. It wouldn’t work the other way around, because how can you be faithful if you’re dishonest? So I guess that’s how we’ve survived. Mariah can never be possessed, which means – alas – that she can never fully possess in turn. She is the wind. Thank you for what you give, Mariah, and thank you for the freedom. You are the rule-maker and the issuer of cues. I do not live by your rules, but I follow your lead.

In order below, this month’s photos: #1 the woods taste green just before a storm; #2-3 that’s my lad with the fuzzy face – two Sullys for the price of one; #4 until we meet again, Winter; #5 “Hands up!”; #6-11 yours truly and Hazel, my son’s rescue dog; #12 my buddy Bruce Norby’s photo; #13 Crow-Hassan woods; #14-15 Ami, Queen of Dragonflies, in one of our galloping conversations.