{"id":32243,"date":"2026-06-18T01:52:54","date_gmt":"2026-06-18T05:52:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/?p=32243"},"modified":"2026-06-18T01:52:54","modified_gmt":"2026-06-18T05:52:54","slug":"the-unseen","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/the-unseen\/","title":{"rendered":"The Unseen"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Unseen<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

The wind howls from the south and rattles the windows. I watch the storm and revel in its power \u2014 surrendering to its majesty, admiring its beauty and strength \u2014 sitting mesmerized before the glass.<\/span><\/p>\n

It occurs to me that no one truly knows where the wind comes from or where it goes. It blows where it will, when it will, and we are powerless to stop it. We cannot see the wind, but we can see its effects. We can see the trees bending, the branches breaking; we can see the wind push enormous cottony clouds across an increasingly pale sky.<\/span><\/p>\n

The wind shakes the house. I watch as shingles are torn from a neighbor’s roof and sent tumbling like scraps of paper down the street. A peaceful lane transforms before my eyes into a whirlwind of wet, swirling debris.<\/span><\/p>\n

A pizza box skitters past, and as I watch it, I begin to imagine. Perhaps it once belonged to a family gathered around a television \u2014 mom and dad too busy or too tired to cook. Or perhaps it was simply pizza night, a beloved ritual. Maybe it belonged to lovers, both sublime and ridiculous, stealing bites between embraces. Or perhaps it was a solitary man or woman who, having no one to cook for and no desire to venture out, chose instead the quiet comfort of a couch, a good film, and a pizza. Then again, perhaps it is just a pizza box.<\/span><\/p>\n

Papers, cardboard, and plastic bags are herded down the street by an angry, frenzied wind. As I watch, I notice another squall line approaching \u2014 this one darker and more ominous than the last. I find myself listening for the sound of freight trains in the clouds, waiting for furious funnels to drop from those dark masses and rake the landscape with spinning fingers of destruction. Perhaps this line will spawn the tornado I have always wanted to see \u2014 that fury of a dark, spinning column, so powerful it can hollow out the heart and soul of a town. Why do I want to see such a thing? There must be something wrong with me.<\/span><\/p>\n

The rain pounds against the windows. The wind screams. Above its shrieks, unknown objects fall and thud against the side of the house. But there are no freight train sounds, and there are no funnels. There is nothing beyond the glass but torrents of rain driven horizontally by a wild and wicked wind \u2014 invisible, relentless. No twisting towers of destruction are coming. There is only the rain and a dark, foreboding sky.<\/span><\/p>\n

The line of storms passes quickly. Looking westward, I see no further squalls approaching. The street below has become a shallow river, water rushing along its edges and carrying away the last remnants of debris. Washed clean, it now gleams in a strange gray-orange afternoon light.<\/span><\/p>\n

The wind ebbs and flows, still fierce, undulating across a bent and genuflecting landscape. I cannot see the wind, but I can feel its power. And standing at my window, I find myself thinking of the many things I cannot see but can nevertheless feel.<\/span><\/p>\n

Love comes to mind. Has anyone ever truly seen love? Like the wind, love is invisible \u2014 we can only observe its effects. A child and his mother. A father and his daughter. A kite dancing in a mild March breeze. You cannot see love, but you can see what it touches \u2014 and you can see, too, the people it has passed over. The wind touches everyone, and so does love.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are different kinds of wind, just as there are different kinds of love. The first warm breezes of spring carry with them the promise of renewal \u2014 these are the winds that lift the wings of love. There are the winds that send a little girl’s kite soaring and make it dance against the blue. There are the harsh, bitter winds of winter, howling like a wounded animal through dark and frozen nights. There are the welcome cooling breezes of summer, offering relief from the oppressive heat. And there are the stirring winds of autumn, faithful servants of the trees, helping them shed their burdens and prepare for a long winter’s rest.<\/span><\/p>\n

We do not know where the wind comes from, and we do not know where it goes. We do not know where love originates, and we can never be certain of its destination. We cannot see love, and we cannot see the wind \u2014 but we can feel the effects of both.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are many things we cannot see yet know to be real. We cannot see the pathogens that cause disease, yet we witness their devastation in the sick and the dying. We cannot see the pain carried in another’s heart. We cannot see faith. We cannot see hope. And yet we know these things exist, because we can observe and measure what they leave in their wake. The inability to see something is no proof of its absence.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sometimes the things we cannot see are the most powerful things of all.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Unseen The wind howls from the south and rattles the windows. I watch the storm and revel in its power \u2014 surrendering to its majesty, admiring its beauty and strength \u2014 sitting mesmerized before the glass. It occurs to me that no one truly knows where the wind comes from or where it goes. It blows where\u2026 Read More »<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":26737,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[228],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32243"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=32243"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32243\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":32245,"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32243\/revisions\/32245"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/26737"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=32243"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=32243"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thundercloud.net\/infoave\/new\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=32243"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}