Pilots of the Pirate Winds

Risk, joy, and sky dancing.

Pirate Winds, pencil and acrylic ink on plant print

From Far From Fearless: A Collection of Essays, 2021.

---

The last two years have been dig-in-and-get-it-done years. There were bills to catch up on, self-made disaster zones to mop up and rebuild, and foundations to set. Years like these are unkind to art, but they happen and are necessary.

The problem is that all the serious work gets comfortable and the stability of working solely for pay seems safe and reasonable. Art seems frivolous, even dangerous. So, for the last 8 months I’ve been working 60 hours a week at a full-time job and a handful of freelance gigs. After five years of struggling to survive, I was ahead and starting to cache my treasures. I told myself that when there was “enough” money, that when I had complete financial security, then I would go back to working on my own projects. As if that would ever happen.

What did happen was October came and it ushered in the Santa Ana winds. The Santa Anas blow in from the desert in a howling straight-line tempest that churns up haze and spits out projectiles. The winds have the capacity to turn sparks into conflagrations that swallow whole communities. They make everyone restless.

Some claim they are named for the devil, Santana. The modern name, Santa Ana, is just a way to tame the idea of them with an extra syllable. Some say the wind event is worse than a full moon. It drives anyone with a tenuous hold on their humanity to acts of violence and homicide. I suppose this all matters when you’re focused on the ground. What I find most interesting is what goes on in the sky.

Corvids are an uncomfortable dichotomy in the wind. Their prowess is feral, but their obvious joy is so utterly human. They make a sport of it. They tumble and toy with one another, buffeted into freefalls and regaining the air in dizzying displays. The Santa Anas are theirs to explore and conquer. It is an unpredictable rollercoaster that must be worth the moments of terror for the pure joy of the ride.

While the winds are howling, it is pointless to try to have a conversation with me. My eyes are continually drawn to the aerial antics. It looks exhilarating up there, and not once did a raven fall or get hurled to its doom. The more I watch, the more I just don’t want to be safe on the ground anymore. The more I watch, the more I want joy. And as the ravens dance in tumult, I remember that joy means risk.

So, I quit all my extra jobs. Better financial security be damned.

I’ve wondered for years if ravens were my “spirit animal,” but I think that you shouldn’t have a complicated relationship with your animal guide. And we do. The ravens and I really don’t approve of each other.

When I have deep concerns about some state I’m in, I go for a hike. And it seems there is always a raven to follow and observe my reverie. They have an odd habit of showing up at my window, bill to glass with a knock when I’m struggling with a choice. They are ubiquitous, sure, but they still have impeccable timing.

Much of folklore says that they are harbingers of doom. Yet, the Finnish believe that there is a single white feather of fortune hidden beneath one wing and that this feather is the promise of a bounty. So I’m always torn by their appearance. Really, they are neither good nor bad, but they could be a little simpler to decipher if they are going to make mysterious appearances.

This morning, as I sat flipping through books and scribbling about the complications of ravens, an insistent gravelly complaint began behind me. I sighed and shook my head, because if I were writing fiction this would be too on the nose. Still, I rose to look out the window and there she was, perched on a low bough of the cypress-pine with a perfect view into the living room where I had been writing.

I nodded at the raven and she glanced at the hawk eagle in the weathering yard disapprovingly. Her attention back on me, she made her complaints heard one more time, and then made a drama of her exit with two unnecessary spins by the window.

I don’t know why the ravens and I are so fascinated with each other. We find one another in wild spaces, each feeling the other deserves closer inspection. In our curiosity we are kin. We wonder, are you opportunity or peril? Are you frenemy or foe? We ask, are you the question or the answer? And I don’t think either of us ever quite decides.

Maybe there is nothing to decide. We know exactly who we both are and where we both belong. We are pilots of the pirate winds. The ravens arrive to reluctantly remind me that the sky is waiting, the devil’s gale is coming, and it’s time to fly.

You ready fellow raven? Let’s fly!