When I close my eyes and let my mind drift, the wind from the West slope of our mountain whips my hair around my face, the light of the dancing clouds bounces through my eyelids. Bamboo grass brushes my jeans as I stand and pick my way to my “sitting rock”, avoiding caterpillars hiding on each bush. My feet are heavy with the red clay mud clinging to my sandals. I stop again, turn my face skyward and let the wind blow away my inner turmoil and agitation. The yellow glow in my closed eyes brightens the dark struggle in my heart. My stir crazy feelings. My anger. The worry, the waiting, the wishing. I suck in the wind and blow out all of it.    I often come here to sit and listen to the sounds of Meriema village in the wind. I have a clear view of a cluster of homes just across the ravine. I can even make out the young folks gathered on a covered patio playing a game. Their bursts of laughter dance through the breezes to my ears. I often feel a pang of loneliness just after smiling at their raucous laughter. It reminds me I will never be one of them. I will never be part of the fabric of Naga village life. I will always have a white face and an accent and be seen as an outsider, no matter how long I live here and how well I speak Nagamese. Oftentimes, that thought is enough to pop me off the rock and retreat back home.