🌬️Sacred Winds
On the long arc of returning — and the wind that never forgets.
The desert didn’t call me. The wind delivered me.
I was born far from here — in a jungle thick with heat and noise, a place where green swallowed everything and storms came with no warning at all.
Some of us are chosen by the places everyone else forgets.
And some of us are taken by the wind long before we know how to follow her.
The wind has been following me since childhood.
Before I understood her voice, I understood her power.
She used to come roaring through the canopy like something ancient waking up angry — that low, impossible sound like a train tearing through the sky. My walls shook. The adults panicked.
But me?
She never touched me.
Jamais.
She shook the world around me, but she never laid her hand on me.
Even then, I think she knew who I would become.
I grew up fearing her and trusting her at the same time — sensing the difference between chaos and intention even as a child. That’s the thing about being raised by storms: you learn how to read the air long before you learn how to read people.
I could feel her shifts in my skin.
I could hear her warnings in the distance.
I knew when to hide, and I knew when not to run.
It’s strange how early protection reveals itself.
At the time, I thought it was chance.
Now I know it was recognition.
Years later, the wind carried me into a landscape so opposite it felt like punishment: the desert.
A harsh place in every direction — socially, spiritually, emotionally.
Even the industry I worked in had no room for children, no softness, no continuity.
Everything was temporary.
Everything demanded more than human hearts could give.
I poured myself into that place with a tenderness it didn’t deserve.
Blood, sweat, tears… and a kind of care that never belonged in such a cold world.
And when I was drained beyond repair, the desert spat me out.
Exiled me.
Forgot me.
But the wind didn’t.
She carried me away — into new terrains, new states, new faces.
She pushed me forward when I couldn’t stand.
She scattered me across places that taught me other lessons, other forms of survival.
I didn’t know it then, but she was preparing me for return.
When I finally went back to the jungle, the storms felt different.
They thundered and broke open the sky just like before, but I wasn’t afraid anymore.
Not at all.
I knew her power.
I knew her patterns.
I knew she would hold me.
She always had.
And when the time came — when the wind had circled my life enough times — she brought me back to the desert one more time.
Not as a punishment.
Not as a trial.
But as a calling.
The desert had changed.
Or maybe I had.
Either way, I could finally see the truth:
This place isn’t barren.
It is alive in ways people forget to notice.
It’s full of quiet resilience, hidden roots, soil that remembers everything, even its wounds.
The wind didn’t carry me this far for nothing.
She brought me back to restore what has been abandoned.
To help this place breathe again.
To return softness where the world turned hard.
To remember what once lived here — and what could live here again.
Because when the wind chooses you, she never forgets the way home.
And I owe her my devotion now — not out of duty, but memory.
She raised me in storms.
Carried me across continents.
Protected me through exiles.
Returned me to the land that needs me most.
These sacred winds…
Elles savent.
They always knew.
- LRC🤍