The Wind of Wonder
Simone Riva - In the morning, people go about their business, walking briskly, running. Even in summer, when everything seems destined to follow a calm and relaxed rhythm, the morning retains its urgency of life. Silent and lost in their thoughts, people go where they need to go, often oblivious to their surroundings. At once attentive and distracted, worried yet resigned to the course of events, gloomy but never completely lost in the jungle of daily life, they try to reach the evening as diligent executors of their tasks. Summer has a way of exposing our frenetic pace, making what is missing amid the daze of our occupations all the more apparent.
But then the wind comes. How friendly the wind is in these months! It makes even the hottest days pleasant and allows even those of us without wings to fly over the sea. It carries scents and smells, ignites memories and dreams—the friendly wind that resists every swamp of thought and every suspicion of absence: "After the fire, there was the murmur of a light wind. When Elijah heard it, he covered his face with his cloak, went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. And behold, he heard a voice saying to him, 'What are you doing here, Elijah?'" (1 Kings 19:12-13).
In our rush, the same question leads us to the heart: "What are you doing here?" We lose the reasons for our existence in so many places and relationships. Yet within us, there is always a door ready to open so that everything may be restored. Thus, when we observe ourselves, we often hear the truest questions blossoming—those that no rush can eliminate and no distraction can erase.
What a feeling to feel the wind on our skin, and what a relief! It even restores our sense of smell. It is like an invitation not to lose ourselves in things, not to isolate ourselves in life, but to become protagonists once again. Even in the pain of our suffering and in the restlessness of our hearts: "From these eyes ringed with pain / that still do not see You, Lord, / reflected in the world, / save me: buried beneath my eyelashes / I have a fleeting glance, / grave with intelligence, / pale with unexpected trembling. / Take me away from myself, who has woven a net around the very beauties you have given me, who has mutilated with foolish vitality the margins of my strength. / O Father, O Friend, why do you want me buried in the tomb of my own name, conscious, alive, and perpetually in love?" (Alda Merini, "Paura di Dio" [Fear of God], 1955).
Summer is the time of the "perpetually in love"—of those who do not need a role to exist, a full agenda to believe they are useful, or a frantic schedule to feel wanted. Sunsets by the sea, lunches at high altitude after a tiring walk, the quiet streets of cities, the wind that brings back buried desires... Everything in summer calls out to the "Father and Friend" so that death does not become the true name of life.
Therefore, "What are you doing here?" remains the most piercing question, urging us not to let the challenge of being present pass us by. It calls us to enjoy these months immersed in the true activity to which we are called: wonder. It is an invitation not to pass life by—not to fill time without coming to terms with emptiness.
