Things the wind says to me
Sounds of the voiceless
I write to you from the western coast, watching the ocean as a glittering blue stripe on the horizon. This place is sacred to me, so please forgive me if I don’t share its place names. Too often, coastal towns in the Philippines are targeted by those with money in their eyes. They come for the waves, the sprawling coast, the so-called empty land which is not empty, but alive, sustaining the people. When enough attention comes to a small town, those who live by the code of the land in reciprocity, slowness, and beauty are displaced by capitalist developers. I feel protective of the life that calls this place home, so for now, I will keep this place nameless.
What’s important to know is that this place breathes. The sound of the ocean crashing and receding is a deep inhale, exhale. Amihan season brings northeastern winds that chill the nights and shake the trees. I could be sitting under a canopy of mahogany and santol worrying away, and the wind moving through the green roof reminds me to just breathe.
The wind also says yes in important moments and conversations. When O and I are exchanging stories, the wind laughs with us. When I wonder about my work as a writer, the shift from sunlight-silence to wind swelling in the trees quiets me. You’re on the right path. When I am lost in my own world, the wind plants me back in my body. This moment is important. Pay attention. Even while reading about decolonization in “Decolonization is not a metaphor” by Tuck and Yang, the wind offers answers to my difficult questions. There is no rulebook for returning to mystery.
The wind is affirmation, question, and invitation.
In the city, there are no whispers from the wind, no breath of the ocean I can follow. There is only the steady buzz of the fridge echoing in my small apartment. The noise of the ceiling fan. When I go outside of my apartment to take a walk, it’s not Mother Earth’s breath that I hear but a constant rumble of car engines and construction.
What do you hear in the place where you are? Is there a larger breath you can return to? I’m hoping this letter encourages you to spend more time listening to what doesn’t have a voice.
The next few weeks will be busy for me, but I hope I can dedicate time to writing about place names and decolonization in the Philippines.
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Such beautiful writing!