A Name for the Wind

The house is quiet this afternoon, settled into that soft, hazy light that only comes when the sky can’t decide between sun and rain. My youngest is building a fort with pillows in the living room, a world of his own making, and the only sounds are the soft thud of his feet and the gentle clink of the dishwasher finishing its cycle.

I was tidying up some books when a name just floated into my mind: Keli. It’s a gentle name, I think. It sounds like sunshine. And it made me wonder, in that meandering way thoughts have on a slow afternoon, if there had ever been a storm with such a name. A hurricane, maybe, or a tempest somewhere far away.

So I did what we do. I picked up my phone, the kettle whistling its readiness in the kitchen, and searched. I typed in the words `keli tropical storm` and waited. But the search came back surprisingly empty. There have been no major storms bearing that gentle name. The internet offered me people, places, but not the wild, swirling force of nature I had half-imagined.

And it left me with a bigger thought, one that I sat with while pouring my tea. Why do we give these immense, chaotic forces our names? Why do we look at a swirling vortex of wind and water, a power so much bigger than ourselves, and call it Andrew, or Katrina, or Ian?

I suppose it’s practical. It gives the storm an identity, making it easier to track and talk about, especially when there are several at once. A name is easier to hold in your mind than a set of coordinates. It makes the danger clear and specific. It gives us a way to warn each other, to say, “She is coming, we need to prepare.”

But I think it’s more than that, too. It reminds me of the way we help our children navigate their own big feelings. When my son is overwhelmed, his face crumpled with a frustration too big for his small body, we give it a name. “It sounds like you’re feeling angry,” I’ll say softly. And just naming it seems to take some of its power away, or at least, it gives him a way to see it, to understand it as something that is happening to him, not something that *is* him.

Maybe that’s what we’re doing with these storms. By giving them a human name, we’re not trying to tame them. We’re just trying to make them understandable enough to face. We’re giving a shape to the shapeless, a name to the powerful, so we can find our own strength in the face of it.

The kettle has long gone quiet. The tea is warm in my hands. Outside, the wind is picking up, rustling the leaves in that familiar, whispery way. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What a storm with your own name might feel like. 🧸

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