Sometimes you cannot catch a hint of a breeze, not even a breath. The air around you is stifling and you find your throat parched, your lips dry. You know in your heart how you long for life to be, but there seems to be no way to get there, no wind to expand your sails. Perhaps you sit still, hoping for a change to come, hoping for life to blow in and replace apathy. But none does. So you sit some more, uncertain of what to do next or how to move forward.
Then you look down and lying there next to your right hand and your left, are oars. They were lying there all along, but you were too focused on your weariness to see them; perhaps they looked too much like work for you to lay hold of them. But finally you find yourself gripping them – the smooth, worn wood is soft in your hands. And you begin the motion. And you begin to move. Forward. Sliding along the surface with the sound of the water lapping at your sides. You move faster. Water sprays up as you slice through the water. And faster still. And suddenly you realize you have found the wind. It is blowing your hair, your clothes. Rushing in your ears, blowing in your eyes.
All you had to do was desire it, be desperate for it, pick up the oars, and row.