Why is there Wind?

Why is there wind, the boy asked. He was lying on the floor, his round stomach flattened against the wood, slowly coloring a blank piece of paper when the question came to him, and just like any child would, he immediately put the question to his father.

His father wasn't looking so much like a serious father just then. His feet were up on the cushions, his shoes were off, and he had a book balancing a few inches from his face. If he were to doze off, as he was just about to do, the book would tumble into his face,  kicking him awake and into righting the book. He would then blink his eyes a few times, rub his bumped nose, and try again to read the thick, dull book. The boy had watched this many times while he colored, and he had always continued coloring because he had seen it many times before.

But with the boy's question, the father happily closed the book, tossed it onto the table beside the couch, and tried his best to sit up and look fatherly. Why is there wind he repeated, thinking all kinds of thoughts while his soon looked up to him from his belly.

Well, he began, with a slight grin across his face, wind is just air that's running.
The boy thought about that answer for a moment but thought his question wasn't quite answered.  Not yet.

But why does air run, he asked?

The father smiled again, and continued, well because air loves music.

The boy understood the words but was too confused to ask another question, so the father continued. The wind, like mom, loves music and he runs everywhere he can to find it. Sometimes he'll whistle through the holes in rocks or between doors, or sometimes he play drums by slamming shut windows or blowing down bikes, which you should never do, but what he really loves are trees.

The father waited for the question.

Trees, the boy asked?

Of course trees. If the wind runs through them, the thousands and thousands of leaves will rattle and sing. It's the best kind of music and that's why you always see the wind running through trees.

The boy sat for a moment, thinking about his question and rocks and windows and trees and leaves and his question again. He thought for a good long while for a boy, and said, finally, okay. So he settled back to drawing on his paper and his father got less serious once again, laying back down on the coach and putting his feet up on the cushions and choosing not to reach for the very serious book on the table. Just as he was settled in, the boy stopped coloring again, looked up from his belly, and asked, why does it rain?

The father folded his hands on his stomach, turned towards his son and said, why don't you tell me?

the creative adult is the child who has survived - Ursula K. Le Guin