By
Rosalind Prosser
MFA Creative Documentary Practice
Scholars I plead with you,
where are your dictionaries of the wind? — Norman MacCaig, By the graveyard, Luskentyre
- WIND[ii]
| hzayz pl. hzawzət | ‘wind’ |
| hwē | ‘wind’ |
| ryēḥ pl. rīḥayn | ‘hot or very hot wind’ |
| śāsīs | ‘dry wind’ |
| mdīt p. mdaytən | ‘sea wind’ |
I find myself in a friend’s garden in Chicago – the Windy City – as I sit down to write this piece. For anybody wondering, the name (in its most literal, material sense) is no lie: wind weaves through the oak trees beside me, making shadows dance and the grass lick my feet. On an acoustic level, leaves jostle with their neighbours, revealing the wind with a shhhhhhhhhshh, whilst a distant windchime plays a staccato tune. These sounds and sensations are by now old friends – having spent the last two years thinking about the wind (researching the Dhofar winds; dancing with the Helm Wind) – to be surrounded by the language of wind makes me feel at home.
2. SEA WIND
| mdīnōt | ‘little sea wind’ |
| mdīt hōnət | ‘cool sea wind’ |
| mdīt zəfzīf | ‘sea wind that blows things around’ |
| mdīt zġayf | ‘very blowy sea wind’ |
| mdīt zəġzēġ | ‘cold sea wind’ |
Taking a break from the writing, I wander out of the secluded Chicago garden, turning left down the drive and follow the curve of the road until I reach the lake. This is not a lake I have encountered before – the distant waterbodies of the Lake District where I am from suddenly seem like small ponds in comparison to the vast “ocean” that stretches before me. I cannot see the other side. Taking off my shoes, my toes sink into warm sand as the wind blows knots through my hair. I let myself lean into the cool breeze, held by the constant pressure of constant air blowing off Lake Michigan. I listen to the wind.
3. EVENING WIND
| hzaymət | ‘feeling of cold and loneliness when cold, unwelcome sea wind comes in the evening |
It is 8pm and my final evening in Chicago. I listen to the cicadas vibrating their wings somewhere in the oak canopy above me, as the smell of American grill wafts in from the next-door garden, smoke revealing the usually hidden pathway of the wind. “There should be a word for it” my friend whispers, breaking the silence. I immediately understand what they mean – where is the word to describe the specific feeling that accompanies this time of transitioning to dusk when the wind is dying and everything else becomes soft as it settles down for the night to follow?
4. NO WIND
| sakt | ‘windless’ |
| ḥaśwɛ | ‘clouds seen from a distance before the sea wind comes’ |
My flight is delayed and Chicago O’Hare is crowded with families flying across the world. I find myself pushed to a quiet corner of Terminal 3 – there is empty floor and a window that allows for some light in this synthetic space. In stark contrast to the chaos behind me, the scene on the other side of the glass pane is calm – the wind has died down for a moment, rendering the sea of runways, tarmac, and trees frozen in time; above this picture, the sky is almost grey and it feels as though the whole world is turning to dust.
a 20-minute drive from the Pennines and the roaring Helm Wind[iv]
5. RETURN OF THE WIND
| mdīt klōt | ‘the sea wind came’ |
19:08 on the plane, somewhere above Toronto, flying back home from Chicago.
In my dreams I make a return to the garden in Chicago: carried by winds, winding through worlds, I have travelled across continents tracing the paths of these wind-flows. Imagining the wind that is touching me right now, temperature changes across Lake Michigan pull us east and we sweep across the Atlantic, maybe here we become absorbed into stronger air currents, maybe we are dissipated by the waves… I like to picture a force strong enough to take us all the way to the British coastland – that familiar edge of windswept, wind-torn, ravaged rock and earth (don’t forget the rain) – it is here we meet the Helm Wind, travelling west at the end of its journey, far from the shadow of the Pennines and the banks of the River Eden, its cold wet air is a shock to the system. But that is not all, there is a third wind waiting for us at this edge of nothing: it is salty and thick, containing particles of dust and something unknown – it smells of distant smoke and cinnamon – we see the outline of an orange glimmer.. this wind introduces itself as xrūb, hot wind from the desert, and without hesitation starts mixing with the winds of Chicago and the Helm. Travelling on the wings of our words, we dance until we know no edge.
[i] The Helm Wind is the only named wind in Britain. Produced by the specific geographical features and climatic conditions of Cross Fell, it is described as a true “local” wind.
[ii] Words taken from my collaboration with linguist (and good friend) Janet Watson – “wind words,” documenting the 47 words in the Mehri language detailing the wind.
[iii] Greg’s Hut is a bothy on the ridge of the Pennines, used by wind-battered walkers of the Pennines Way. It was my sheltering point when researching and filming the Helm Wind in February-April 2023.
[iv] In contrast to my documentation of the wind in Dhofar (Oman) through the words used in Mehri that bring it alive, my research into the Helm Wind was embodied and situated, and mostly involved sewing a GoPro into a kite to film and photograph (with) the Helm Wind.
