The house I rent is on a windy street. I'm not sure exactly why this is the case, whether it's the configuration of the houses, or the direction of the street, or the layout of the whole neighborhood that is responsible for funneling the slightest breeze down the lane with the force of a small gale, but that's exactly what seems to happen.

I notice it in the morning when I run. My street and the one perpendicular at the end of the block seem to have a lot more wind than the rest of my route. On cold mornings, I know if I can make it 2 blocks the air will still and I can make it the two miles until I get back to the windy streets. By that time, though, I'm hot from running and the breeze is a welcome relief.

In the evenings, the wind is different though. It winds down the driveway and turns at the back of the house, curling around the windows of my bedroom. It gathers up the fallen leaves, sending them skittering across the concrete to their inevitable collision with the garage or the fence out back, corralling them into the corner where the two structures meet.

Later, the now empty wind begins to echo like waves breaking on the beach, the rhythmic ebb and flow of each gust and its retreat. Listening from my bed, its easy to imagine that I am back on Kauai , or better yet in Mexico where I once fell asleep on the beach while watching a lightening storm drifting far out over the ocean.

When I think of that night, it's hard not to wonder what I'm doing spending so much of my life in the building down the street, reading emails, plugging in cables, showing people where to point and click. I cannot help but wonder if we all aren't missing the point: that there are more important matters to attend to in this world.

Like the wind, and the waves, and what we could learn from the unhurried persistence of each.