Dance of the Windmills

As we move in and out of seasons of life, different aspects of ourselves may fade in and out of prominence.

Different seasons in our life require, invite, and allow different qualities and interests to emerge. What we do in one season may need to be set aside during another season.

We often think of our childhood selves as completely of the past, as part of a previous season in life. Sometimes, though, these pieces of our identity are just lying dormant, waiting for us to reach a level of growth and maturity when they can re-emerge.

Classical Chris

When I was in high school, I loved classical music. I played bassoon in the school orchestra and band, and I played several other instruments at times.

In most music we played, the bassoon was relegated to a supporting role—but every once in a while, we would play something that invited the bassoon to shine just a bit. Those same pieces of music were the ones I most loved to listen to. Stravinsky was my favorite. Just listen to the bassoon that opens The Rite of Spring.

Being a musician—and especially a bassoonist—was a strong part of my identity for several years.

As I launched into my adult life, the music in my heart faded. I made choices and followed paths that took me in other directions.

Over the years, my taste in music has expanded—yet classical music is still the music of my heart.

It’s been many years since I’ve listened to classical music on a regular basis. My inner bassoonist has lain dormant for many years, neglected while I have pursued other interests.

These days, when I think of who and what I am, musician rarely comes to mind, despite its strength in my youth. But every so often, something reminds me—and for a brief time, I have recaptured a part of me that I’ve mostly forgotten.

An unexpected Firebird

My recent journey to Tennessee included a stretch through Indiana.

I knew what to expect from northern Indiana. I’d been through the area before, and I knew what I would see: farm fields, a vast expanse of sky, and wind farms.

It is very similar to the Illinois farming area where my in-laws live, and I knew it would be familiar and home-like to me.

Flipping through radio stations, I found news and music that wasn’t quite my style. So I kept searching. After trying out several other music stations, I finally landed on a classical music station. Comforted and energized by the classical music I was hearing, I forged ahead.

I settled into this stretch of my drive through the unplanted fields, windmills spinning their arms against the vast sky ahead as I listened to Holst’s The Planets.

After a long stop at a gas station, I got back into my car, having completely forgotten that I had the radio on. As I turned the car on, I was startled to hear the haunting tones of the bassoon solo from Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. (You can hear it at around 5:05 in this video.)

Barely aware that I was doing it, my hands followed the fingering patterns for the bassoon part while they guided the steering wheel. All these years later, I felt like a bassoonist again. The dormant part of me had come to life. Although I don’t feel incomplete without music in my life, listening to Stravinsky and experiencing the body memory of bassoon fingering, I felt complete. A part of me had reawakened, and it was spectacular to feel that part of myself again.

My heart soared while the majestic windmills danced, waving their arms in perfect rhythm to Stravinsky.

Seasons of sexual interest and neglect

As a child and young woman, I was very interested in sex. I was curious about my body, and I was quite aware of the various tingles I experienced at times. My first real kiss turned my insides into molten lava.

Although I would never have admitted it to anyone, when I thought of who and what I was, the words “interested in sex” often came to mind.

During my young adult years, this very characteristic became enmeshed with sexual sin and much shame. I made choices and followed paths that took me away from my God-given sexual curiosity and into a season when I hated my own sexual interest as well as my sexual appeal to anyone else.

By the time I married Big Guy, the sexuality had largely faded from my heart. It was a forgotten and neglected part of me.

An unexpected re-emergence

When I began to address my struggles with sex, I did so only out of compassion for my husband. I had no expectations of sex becoming something for myself.

As I worked on sex, I came to enjoy sex well enough. Our sex life and marriage became more comfortable and more predictable. I knew what to expect from my less tense husband. I knew what kind of frequency to expect in our sex life. Some sexual encounters were better than others, but mostly everything was familiar and comforting.

I settled into the journey, knowing what to expect.

But there came a time when I started to forget that I was working on sex. I was in a new season where sex seemed to just be a natural expression and extension of our relationship. It wasn’t something I needed to think about much. It had become very home-like to me.

One day when I was driving, I realized that I was singing out loud. This was very unlike me. As I thought through what might be going on, my mind kept going back to the way my husband and I had started the day together in bed.

And I realized . . . I was sexually happy. I was curious again. I was once again a sexually interested woman.

A dormant part of me had come to life again.

I hadn’t felt incomplete without sexual interest, yet I realized that as my body and heart were experiencing sex in a way I never had before, I felt sexual and complete.

I had learned to respond to a rhythm in our relationship that I hadn’t even known existed.

A part of me had reawakened.

My heart soared.

And like the windmills waving their arms in rhythm against the sky,

I danced.

Image credit | Pexels at pixabay.com