Midday heat settled over the small clearing beneath a cluster of coconut palms, their fronds swaying gently as if testing the breeze. I sat cross-legged on the soft, damp grass, my small hands resting on my knees. The Gale Sage knelt opposite me, staff planted vertically in the dirt. The scrubby roots beneath us felt warm and comforting, and in that moment, I was keenly aware of the damp earth pressing into my ankles.
"Breathe," the Sage said quietly. His voice was calm—like wind threading through leaves rather than a roar. "Close your eyes, Aiman. Forget the world around you. Listen to the air."
I blinked and took a deep breath, watching the sunlight dance through the palm canopy. The sky was a pale, hazy blue, and somewhere beyond the grove, a bird called out.
"Like this?" I asked, trying to mimic the slow in‐and‐out I'd seen him do.
He nodded, palms upturned and still. "Yes. But sense the air as a companion, not just something you inhale or let out. Feel its pulse."
It sounded… strange. I closed my eyes, tiptoeing around my own mind as if it were made of deeper shadows than the day had light. My chest rose and fell, but the air felt like any other air—cool, a little sticky.
"Now," he said after a long moment, "call nothing. Not wind, not breath. Simply be."
I tried to do exactly that, but in my head, questions clamored: I'm not calling anything? How do I not call the wind when I want it to come?
Be still. I repeated the Sage's instruction in my head. I felt my sister's giggle earlier, the echo of her footsteps, even the faint drip of water from a low coconut frond. And then—is that a flutter of something behind my eyelids?
My heart climbed into my throat. I realized that when I closed my eyes, I could sense a subtle motion, a tiny stirring of air against my skin—like a tiny butterfly brushing my cheek. I inhaled, slow and careful, and the stirring grew into something more tangible: a gentle swirl around my knees, as if a delicate breeze decided to circle me.
"Notice it?" the Sage asked, voice soft.
I nodded—eyes still shut. For a moment, I wasn't sure if my mind was simply imagining things, but then I felt the small eddy of air creep around my fingertips. My stomach fluttered: I made the wind! Well… I guess the wind was already there, but…
"Let it be," the Sage encouraged. "That's the Breath of Stillness. You didn't call it forth. You allowed it to exist."
I swallowed and opened my eyes. Before me, the grass—each blade—quivered slightly, as though acknowledging the swirl of air at its roots. I dabbed my sweaty palm at my brow. "It… it was just there?"
"Always," he said, rising to his feet slowly, careful not to disturb the swirl. "But you must learn to cultivate that calm void inside—otherwise, the wind becomes a storm that sweeps you away." He studied me for a moment. "Now, open your palms, and feel that eddy become smaller."
I extended my hands, palms up. Thinking of the lesson, I didn't push or pull—just wanted the air to contract on its own. The small whirlwind I'd summoned relaxed, shrinking into nothingness.
I exhaled loudly once it was gone. The grass lay flat again, still as the Sage had described. My chest heaved with relief.
"Good," he said, offering a slight nod. "Someday, you'll call larger winds, but never without pausing first. Every gust begins with the Breath of Stillness."
I glanced down at the spot I'd been sitting, where the earth only minutes before had known that tiny cyclone. The thought that I'd caused it—even gently—felt both thrilling and a little frightening.
Mother's voice drifted in from beyond the grove, calling my name. I rose unsteadily, cradling my knees. My sister raced forward, pulling at my sleeve. "Did you do it? Did you really make the breeze? Show me!"
I hesitated, remembering how other villagers had stared. I tried not to let my sister's excited gaze pressure me. Instead, I thought back to the stillness I'd felt—the calm that existed before the wind moved. My chest hummed with memory, and I allowed that calm to spread, imagining a tiny circle of air forming again.
A faint puff ruffled my hair, just enough for my sister to squeal with delight, "You did it!"
I grinned, rubbing my palm over my hair as though I'd discovered magic. Mother emerged from the palms, brushing stray leaves from her sarong. She watched me, eyes gentle but wary.
The Gale Sage stepped out from behind the nearest trunk, staff resting against his shoulder. He eyed the faint swirl on the grass. "Very good, Aiman," he said. "Enough for today. Remember this feeling—stillness before motion."
I nodded, feeling a newfound calm settle in my chest. The world felt less overwhelming than before.
As we walked back toward the village, the midday sun warmed our backs. My sister chattered about everything we'd do—maybe we'd fly kites tomorrow, catching the wind. I smiled, but inside I thought: I'll need more than a breeze to fly a kite. I want to know why the wind listens to me.
Mother squeezed my hand. "Your first lesson," she said quietly, "was learning to wait. You did well."
The Sage glanced at me, expression softening. "And when you wait, the wind shows you its secrets—so that when you call, you never lose yourself to it."
I looked up at him, curious. "What happens if you lose yourself?"
He slowed his pace, then knelt again, bringing his face closer to mine so even the faint rustle of his robe whispered in my ear. "A storm without a calm center will spin until it destroys everything in its path—sometimes even itself. Learn stillness first, Aiman. Then you will learn harmony."
I nodded, absorbing those words like rain in dry earth. It felt strange—knowing that sometimes less was more. That the wind was patient, waiting for me—and that I had to learn patience in return.
We reached the edge of the clearing, where the dirt road fell away into rutted tracks. The Sage rose, dusting his robes. "Tomorrow, we work with small gusts—circling leaves, lifting light cloth. But always remember what you felt today."
I nodded again, catching my breath in the warm sun. The memory of that tiny vortex—born from stillness—settled in my chest, a quiet promise that I could walk beside the wind instead of being carried away.
And as the three of us—my parents and I—headed back toward our hut, I found myself watching the scattered clouds above, wondering what secrets they might share once I learned to listen.