Work Text:
My grandmother loved windmills, adored them in the way that middle aged and older white women find one irrelevant thing to attach their entire identity and all their decor to. Her house was absolutely plastered with paintings, diagrams, drawings, and all other manner of art with windmills as the central focus. There were dozens of miniature statues, all varying in material, fragility, and complexity. Some of them even had working parts: spokes that turned or working lights on the inside.
When I was a kid, I would sit in front of one in particular for hours, just spinning the blades and watching them in reverential silence. It was one of the older, shabbier ones - I would sometimes watch my grandfather put new oil on the moving parts to ensure that it kept its charm and ability. He knew it was my favorite. I always loved spending time at my grandparents’ house, but a vast majority of my time was spent sitting in the far corner of the living room, perched on the arm of the couch or the end table or the carpet, staring at the built-in bookshelf where it resided.
I guess my enrapturement was pretty obvious - if I think back hard enough I can hear my mother whispering to my grandmother in the adjoining kitchen about her concerns with my fixation on it, but I could never bring myself to become too invested in listening to whatever she was saying. I was too busy imagining what the rush of wind in my ears would feel like if I were a bird perched on one of the spokes, or what it would sound like up at the top to hear the blades spinning endlessly past. The blades, never going anywhere new but nevertheless constantly in motion: not in the business of creating new worlds or destroying existing ones, but keeping something, however small, going infinitely. I wished I could be even tinier than I already was so that I could go inside the windmill, open its door and climb its stairs and wind my way to the top, opening the windows all along the way and flipping the levers or whatever my young mind imagined to put the windmill in motion. To watch it spin from within, to sit on the roof and exist solely to ensure its continuance, its survival.
I would have dreams about it if I hadn't visited my grandparents' in long enough. I would dream that I had finally reached the pinnacle of the structure and I could look out and see far and wide and away all the endless space around me. I could look down and see the distance spread out like a carpet unrolled just for me. I wasn't suicidal, and I don't believe any measure of mental diagnosis could truly describe what those dreams were. They were just… freedom. I could feel the wind on the back of my neck, sending shivers to the ends of my fingers. I could feel the way my weight shifted when I rose up onto the tips of my toes and leaned slightly forward.
Sometimes, I would leap out and catch one of the enormous blades, clinging onto it and flying in circles until my arms got too tired and gave out. Sometimes, I would fall after letting go. Sometimes, I would fly. Both versions of the dream woke me with exhilaration in my veins, my heart soaring, and I would ask my mother at breakfast when I could go see my grandparents again.
~
When my grandmother passed away, she gave me that specific windmill. It was a moment of pure joy and nostalgia in the midst of inevitable tragedy, and it felt right. I was destined to own that windmill. It was meant for me, to be mine and mine alone in the great expanse of space and time. It would have pride of place on the shelf in my living room. That is, until I yearned for its closeness and moved it to my bedroom. Looking at it, I could feel the oddest sensation: my vertebra separating slightly, as if I was suddenly weightless. A lack of gravity in the back of my throat. Sometimes my ears would pop. It thrilled me. I coveted it like nothing else.
I began scouring thrift shops, begging my mother for insights as to where my grandmother's other windmills had gone. Certainly, there had to be others like this one. I couldn't go without the feeling. I told my mother it was because it made me feel closer to my grandmother, but I know she never felt what I was feeling. It was for me alone. It was my destiny, calling out to me, singing on a breeze, cycling and whirling and dodging all others until it reached me, only me.
I only ever found one other windmill like the original my grandmother owned, and it was completely by chance. The man I was dating at the time had an interest in historical architecture, and we took a trip to see one of the most famous and oldest windmills in the UK. I was overjoyed at the excursion, and I took two extra days off of work, telling my boyfriend that I had family business to attend to that would prolong my portion of the journey. It was a delightful trip, though the beginning of the end of our relationship. I couldn't bring myself to divert any attention to my partner in the face of such a monumentally life changing revelation. The windmill was utterly awe inspiring. I'm not much of an artist, but I purchased a fresh sketchbook in a local shop and filled pages and pages with drawings of it from all angles. It had my entire, uncompromising focus. After my boyfriend departed, a bit sour at my neglect, I managed to tear myself away to scour local shops, hoping to find some mention of or homage to that which made the town well known. Aside from the touristy gift shops, which I knew were far too modern for my search and tastes, I managed to find a back alley antique store cloaked in dust and darkness on the last day of my trip.
Behind the counter was a little old man, surprisingly sturdy and attentive for what you would expect. He turned on extra lights when he saw me arrive, and I smiled at him across the low shelves. As I poured over the trinkets and statuettes, I noticed his page-turning becoming far less frequent. This nudged my curiosity, and after a prolonged period of finding nothing of particular interest, I approached him to strike up a conversation. He was a fascinating man, and very odd, but I regretfully had a rather one track mind at that point in time. I inquired about potential antiques related to the lighthouse, and he looked as if he could have already told what I was looking for from the moment I walked in. I felt a looming sense of inevitability, pieces slotting into place as he stood and walked toward the slightly decrepit back room.
I peered anxiously around the counter, attempting to see what he was retrieving on my behalf, but I could only feel something growing in my stomach, what felt like an enormous gust of wind traveling up through my calves to my shoulders. I blinked in surprise when he brought it out; it was much smaller than I had expected. It could easily fit in the palm of one hand. As I lowered myself to counter level to squint at it, he chuckled.
"Given us a fair bit of trouble, that one," he said.
"How much?" I asked, feeling a crackling of air moving through my knuckles as I itched to pick it up, cradle it in my hand and explore all its hidden depths and crannies.
His price was far outside my approved range, but I paid it anyway. As soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it. When he finally handed it over, I felt an immensity that I can't quite describe. I swayed violently on my feet, afraid for a split second that I would collapse and injure the figurine in the process of falling to the dusty floor. Thankfully, I remained relatively upright. When I closed my eyes, I saw blue, chipping paint, an endless expanse of wood paneling rising above me, and beyond that… the sky. It was as if I could see the air moving, tell the wind patterns and the temperature fronts and the pockets of difference, all swirling together into the greatest destination. It was calling me. I was certain of it with a firmness I had not previously felt. I knew that if there was any place in the universe for me, it was there, somehow, and though I was miniscule in the larger scheme of existence I could make it count in that moment.
I don't know how long I stood there. The shopkeeper had an odd look in his eye when I came back to myself. I couldn't tell if he was glad to be rid of it or concerned about whatever new effects it may have. At that point, it didn't matter. I practically dashed out of the shop, making my train home by mere minutes. When I reverently placed my new find on the shelf next to the one I had grown up with, I felt the call stronger than ever. Suddenly, my jeans were too constricting, and I searched for a flowing skirt to change into. My socks, too, were abandoned, in favor of the carefree barefootedness of my rural youth. My hair was shaved fairly short at that time, but I could feel all the follicles prickling and rippling as they sought the air that aroused them. As I stood, feet pressed into the plush carpeting of my bedroom, I felt utterly weightless. It isn't something I can describe to you. I saw stars behind my eyes, the sky as I had never truly noticed it before. Endless. Welcoming. Freeing.
These windmills had unlocked the secret for me. I couldn't turn back, and I didn't want to. Now, I have found my place. The windmills opened the door for me, and I will forever be grateful to the slow but certain swath of their blades through the sky.
I found an abandoned windmill in a field behind an old abbey a few towns away from where I grew up and took it upon myself to restore it to its former glory. Living there keeps me close to what really matters. The wind. The storms. The sky. Misty mornings when water droplets collect on the blades as they continue their even spin. Cool evenings when I lay on my back in the grass but barely feel it, rising from the inside out as I stare at a patch of sky between the blades, never moving yet always expanding. Constant. Others cannot see it, but they will. The only true beauty is that of the sky that calls to me, that we are all from and of which we will all return. Finally, completely, free.