A few feet above me, the wind rushes by in a brutal moan. Sitting in the attic, I look slowly upward at the ceiling, which is also the roof, and I listen as it creaks and crackles. There’s something exhilarating about being this close to nature’s wrath in the middle of the night, and still remaining warm and cozy. It’s hyggelig, and in the amber glow of a Charlie Brown-like Christmas tree, I snuggle into the space while the wind makes another pass above the roof.
Andy has warned that the rain will soon turn to snow, making for a messy commute the next morning; for now it’s not quite cold enough to turn the water solid, and not quite heavy enough to make a sound on the roof. All I can hear is the dull rolling wind, like the most muted thunder in the distance. It rumbles with an occasional whistle, one of those enchanting entities that can only be heard or felt, never seen, even as it surrounds you. Like music.
On this almost-winter night, a piano lends its voice to the wind, and the duet is unexpectedly pleasant and calming. It’s usually easier to sleep when the wind is providing its ambient noise, the same way it’s easier to fall asleep to the sound of rain falling. When there’s no noise, every little sound is calamitous; when there’s an ocean or the dull fall of rain in the background, it blunts those cacophonous explosions.
This was intended as a night-time post, but at this time of the year some of us rise before there is light in the sky, and in that stillness and silence perhaps a little piano music might be of use.
