As long as the wind chimes chime, I know that the wind blows.
And my heart is at peace — assured, steady, and even calmer.
I’m not sure what it is exactly —
the gentleness in their sound,
or simply the way it envelops me in the present.
It’s not noise.
It isn’t even white noise.
It’s the presence of the wind —
the fact that it is blowing —
makes all the difference to me.
If rain helps me write,
Then the wind helps me stop.
It pulls me back from wandering too far —
into a future not true yet,
or a past I’ve already moved from.
We relocated earlier this year.
The apartment stands tall on the 23rd floor,
windows wide and waiting in every room.
There’s nothing between us and the open sky around —
the view, that dazzles each evening with its theatrical sunsets —
deep purple to shades of burnt orange, and the unhinged breeze —
infinite, untamed, mesmerizing.
It’s not just air.
It’s affection. A tight hug from a distant friend.
It enters without knocking, incessant wave after another,
giving us a gift of its time and a feeling of being quietly seen.
I’ve been a wind chime lunatic for as long as I can remember.
As a child, my walks came to a halt —
when I came across a wind chime that sang wildly in the air.
Each time, my heart (and my feet) would stop in admiration.
Those wooden tubes dancing against the sky —
Carefree, they seemed too beautiful to own, too magical to buy.
Childhood was chocolate bars and pencil cases.
Wind chimes? They were rare miracles,
glimpsed only when luck allowed.
Years passed.
I grew up,
But that awe never left me.
Travelling, I began collecting trinkets —
dreamcatchers, fallen leaves, stolen rocks, and wind chimes.
They bring me a joy — unparalleled.
Unadulted. Unreasonable. Yet somehow, complete.
Now, each room holds a little song. Whispering a story.
At the front door —
a tiny brass bell ornate with an owl
It rings when the breeze plays with
a fluttering Buddhist prayer envelope.
Its dinging is not just sound —
It is welcome.
It tells me gently,
You’re home!
In the living room —
bamboo pipes running haywire,
They rattle and sing when the west wind blows unapologetically.
Its dancing is not just a movie reel —
it is a guest arriving without invitation,
a ritual reminder asking me to stay where I belong,
In the now!
Step into a spare bedroom—
a cascade of sea-shells from a beach in Ko Samui,
a gift from a friend who probably thought of me in her holiday —
unsure why, but their clinks softer, like precious laughter of a toddler
ruminating secrets too sacred for voice.
They swing when the south windows are wide-open,
giving me a delicate scare,
but I swear the sea visits me for just a breath there, and
I know that am special, somehow already chosen
