I sit outside my house, my mind clear and vacant. The sun shines mildly but brightly. I watch the trees sway, dancing to the energetic tunes of the wind. I ask myself, “do the trees really want to dance, or do they do so out of coercion?” Is there an understanding between the trees and the wind, or is it a case of master and slave?
The wind calms, and so do the trees, standing still like the moments ago never happened. I want to ask the tree if it loves to dance, but I don’t know how. I beat my hands on the wooden stool that I have been sitting on, but the trees merely shiver. I beat harder on the stool until my hands start to hurt me, but the best I get is a little more shiver from the trees. I give up. I will just sit here staring at the trees, I conclude, wondering why it won’t dance to my tunes. Maybe it doesn’t like my melody. Maybe I am not hitting hard enough. I do not know.
Now, the wind comes again, as if to mock me. It succeeds. I gaze at the trees with a humble look upon my face as they begin to dance again. I do not blame the wind for being able to make the trees dance when I can’t; and I want to hate the trees for refusing to dance to my melody. I can’t. How can anybody hate something that dances so beautifully, even if not to their tune? I decide to enjoy the dance and try to learn the technique of the wind. It’s difficult, but I am determined.
I look up to the sky, the clouds are gathering and it’s starting to get dark all of a sudden. The wind is blowing harder. It flogs my skin all over with a harsh coldness that is mixed with subtle pleasure. I close my eyes and stretch my hands out sideways, relishing the moment. Briefly I forget the dancing trees and almost start to dance myself, enjoying the melody of the wind.
I feel a sharp sting on my cheek as I hear mama screaming my name from inside the house. I open my mouth to answer her call, but the wind fills my throat and I almost choke. Papa is not back yet; I hope he doesn’t get wet. The rain is falling already and I am running into the house. I stop to look at the trees again; they are dancing even more beautifully now, swaying and twirling harder. Mama calls again and I realise that I am soaked already. I dash inside the house hoping Mama doesn’t scold me for playing in the rain. She does. She pulls my ear and smacks my buttocks; “Go and dry yourself!” She commands. I do not cry, but my face and my eyes are wet, I think it’s the rain. I remember the trees; I will learn to make them dance another day.