How I Enjoyed a Windy in Chicago Alone by Being Present Every Moment

There was an intermittent whomping of the bushes outside my window throughout the night. The wind was biting cold and furious, never letting up.

It was so comforting to sit in the cozy room, under the blankets, watching the wind play havoc outside.

I casually glanced at the clock. It was 6.30 am on a Wednesday. I was in no particular hurry to get up (read, get out of the oh-so-warm bed).

And then there were temptations to stay in; there was a book on the bedside table, which also held my laptop with the internet connection. The TV remote was within reach, and the curtains on the window were drawn.

If that was not incentive enough, the menu lay open to the breakfast page. I could simply call room service. There I was, lying in bed, isolated yet connected in many ways.

I chose the book (But naturally!) The escape it offers is incomparable, and this one was by a particularly favourite author. Dog Stories by James Herriot. The atypical country vet painting the diverse colours of his practice. I was soon lost in it. A steaming cup of black tea soon gave up on me and turned cold.

It was 10 am by the time I looked up from the book, but it didn’t seem like it. The storm had not abated even a bit, and the sky was as dark as ever. I had not seen the sun for some days now.

I was hungry but loathed dressing up to go get food at the café. It may seem strange, but I feel ‘full’ after reading. The topic I have just read keeps me engrossed for a while.

This same feeling surfaced after I had put down Dog Stories. This time my stomach disagreed. I put on my Saturday best and was off to relish the fullness of a cream-topped waffle.

As soon as I left the confines of the building to cross over to the café, the chill gripped me. The wind ripped off my heavy flannel-lined windcheater, treating my hair to an invigorating blow dry.

The cold factor took some time to register. I decided to remain there. A pretty limestone seat had been conveniently installed among the shrubs. The waffle could wait.

The agitating air took no particular direction. It whipped leaves about, shook parked cars, and tossed windcheaters. It was interesting to watch the dance of the leaves to the tunes of the wind. Sometimes they marched all in one direction. At other times they took a spin. Anyone who lagged behind was soon raked up in the flow.

It was no use sweeping the driveways. Fall had left enough leaves behind to let the wind have his amusement.

If anything in the world closely resembles feeling on top of the world, it is to feel the wind in my face and sense it rip through my hair, short as it is. Time and again, I have surrendered myself to this experience, and it never fails to enthral me. And so it did on that blustery day.

I thought of Pooh Bear’s story. Pooh, with all his honey jars floating along with Piglet in the deluge to Christopher Robin’s house, wishing everyone a Happy Blustery Day!

I knew it was time to escape inside when my ears did not feel mine anymore. The Maitre knew me and led me to my favourite place by the fire (a real fire with logs, mind you). A newspaper appeared soon after I had placed my order. France is burning, New Orleans is still wet and out of bounds, and President Bush threatens to block the bill against the ill-treatment of POWs, but all is well with the rest of the world.

My breakfast arrived. I kept the paper away, and soon, the waffle before me disappeared.

My hesitation about leaving the warmth of the bed for a visit to the café had caused time to fly. Perhaps it was out there flying when I was enjoying the weather. I cared not. I gazed at the fire some more. It seemed like a good thing to do till the Maitre got my bill.

Then it was back to the room for me, for Herriot beckoned. Herriot stories have the unique ability to cheer up anyone and infuse a feel-good spirit. Though, there are other reasons I like his works.

But sometimes, even the best books are no match for a stomach filled with warm, maple syrup-dipped and cream-topped waffles. I considered a siesta. I can’t remember the last time I had such an unhurried existence.

It had been gloomy and dark throughout, but as I awoke, it seemed the sun had finally broken through the clouds. I went to the window and peered out for a better look. This brightness was no sun; it was SNOWING!! The snowflakes replaced the leaves as the wind’s favourite toy. They were all over the place, on the roof, the trees, bushes, cars and the street. I had to go out!

The windcheater came on, and so did a warm cap and gloves this time. I was prepared for the icy wind outside if it tried to undo my armour. The flakes flew all around, and I caught a few on my tongue. I had no idea when it started to snow, but now there was a blanket of white all over. This was Chicago’s first winter snow, heralding the holiday season’s approach. Now Thanksgiving was nearer than it seemed.

My lethargic disposition that day left me with a reduced appetite. I still had to give my packing a final look over. My flight was due late evening, and I had to leave for the airport soon. I sauntered back into the warmth looking back on this day.

A blustery day. A singularly fulfilling day.