The multi-colored windsock which has danced enthusiastically with the least prompting of breeze across my garden these past two years ripped and sagged as I rescued it from a wraparound the supporting pole this morning. So now the adventure of replacement begins. The windsock that is being knit from rope in an open weave (oh, yes!, appreciating and applauding the fact that you cannot really capture the wind, or even direct it – more indicate its direction and this, wryly, in a purse stitch) is far from ready to take on this role. So I juggle choices. I can go the direct route and trot off to the store where I know they sell windsocks, choose one, buy it, bring it home, install it, enjoy it. Or I can feel the vacuum of wanting and needing a windsock and open to the indirect route and wait on whatever happens. This takes faith that something wonderful will occur (not belief, which implies restrictive preconceived notions, but open-ended limitless faith) and factoring in time (where NOW is not necessarily now). And being willing to expect the unexpected. I may travel both routes. Trek off to the store and see how that feels. Follow any small windsock whisper before, during, after. For the moment the present windsock is limping in the wind, a wounded warrior. I will likely bury it in the garden once it is released from duty.