I am tilting at windmills\nThat is my passion\nThe bigger, the better\nIt gives me courage\n\n--Björn Afzelius, "Don Quixote"

One night, I rode.\n\nI rode over land and sea. I rode past the farthest reaches of my imagination. What I was searching for, I couldn't say. Meaning, perhaps. Maybe I was looking for meaning.\n\nInstead, I found [[them|onward]].

More hours passed. The evening faded into night, then with a brilliant flash of autumn gold burst into day. I found nothing, no one.\n\nAnother day went by, and then I saw it.\n\nOf the three, the last windmill was the biggest. Each groan of the millstone seemed the call of a collosus, each sweep of the sail defiant. A single man passed by at its feed, loading sacks of freshly ground flour onto a cart. His back was bowed like a comma. He did not look up as I came over the hill toward them.\n\nI could [[ride|tilt3]], but what was the point when I already knew it was pointless? But it wasn't too late. I could still [[turn back|away2]].

But what kind of a choice was that? I had made my decision. There was nothing to differentiate this windmill from the last. And yet, with each windmill I passed, I felt that something had been taken from me, something that time could never give back.\n\nIt was an uncomfortable feeling. But perhaps--perhaps--this was [[meaning|ride3]].

I didn't die, of course. I knew the feeling of defeat--I had no interest in learning the one associated with death. I hadn't missed much, I told myself. It was laughable to look for meaning in the windmills, anyway.\n\nEvery once in a while, as I rode back over the fields toward my hometown, I would find myself wondering if it would have felt like flying, that last one.\n\nOf course it wouldn't. It would have felt like a broken spine or a smashed skull. What fool would think otherwise? They weren't giants. They weren't meaningful. They were only windmills.

They stood facing west, their arms cutting the air like scythes.\n\nI felt a pang when I looked on them. Was this meaning? I looked at them, and I knew I must face them.\n\n[[Tilt at a windmill|tilt1]]\n[[Keep riding|ride1]]\n[[Turn back now|flee1]]

More hours passed. The evening faded into night, then with a brilliant flash of autumn gold burst into day. I found nothing, no one.\n\nAnother day went by, and then I saw it.\n\nOf the three, the last windmill was the biggest. Each groan of the millstone seemed the call of a collosus, each sweep of the sail defiant. A single man passed by at its feed, loading sacks of freshly ground flour onto a cart. His back was bowed like a comma. He did not look up as I came over the hill toward them.\n\n\nI could [[ride|tilt31]] and very possibly die. But it wasn't too late. I could still [[turn back|away]].

I couldn't bring myself to even try. Without another glance at the windmill or its miller, I turned around and rode back home.

Slamming shut my visor, I lowered my lance and I rode for all I was worth. I rode with the sound of the wind whistling in my ears, of groaning grindstones in my head, of thrill in my heart, and, when the windmill's arm swung down, of a snapping in the area of the rib cage. Though I had expected it, the blow still came as a surprise. It took a moment to catch my breath.\n\nIf this was meaning, well... [[meaning|windmill2]] hurt.

Mine were only windmills, [[after all|flee6]].

I watched the others in their struggles, the giants at which they tilted and the more I saw\n\nthe more I knew\n\nthey were the [[noble ones|flee5]].

Meaning...\n\nMeaning is irrelevant.

When the moment of conflict came, I rode [[away|flee2]].

Books and fairy stories were filled with people on quests for meaning, I thought as I rode away, back from where I had come. Only those who had had it all along ever succeeded, and even then they can return home battered and humiliated. Maybe if I had looked for meaning in windmills I would have found something, anything. That is another story entirely.\n\n\n\n"For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act, mine to write; we two together make but one."\n--Cervantes, Don Quixote\n\n\n\nThat story isn't mine to tell.\n

I rode past cities and towns, mountains and valleys, deserts and [[oceans|flee4]].

I turned my back on my monsters and left them to the [[horizon|flee3]].

I rode up at a lope to explain the situation, and to my surprise the miller stopped loading his cart and gave me a look of disdain.\n\n"You must be new in these parts," he said. "Nobody comes here anymore."\n\n"I thought I should warn you," I told him. "In a moment I'm going to tilt at this windmill, and I don't want you to be in harm's way."\n\nHe looked at me like I was a mad person. "Tilt at the windmill? Why would you want to tilt at the windmill?"\n\nMeaning. I was looking for meaning.\n\n"Only a fool would look for meaning in windmills," he snapped. "There is no meaning. Only life. You are alive for a little while, and then you are not. What more do you want?"\n\n"I feel like there should be more to it than that."\n\n"Well, there isn't. And you are not tilting at my windmill. You'll damage the sails. This is my living, you know."\n\nAnd he went back to loading his flour.\n\nI watched him carry and fetch for a while, and eventually I got down to help. Meaning or no meaning, life will go on.

Meaning in Windmills

More hours passed. The evening faded into night, then with a brilliant flash of autumn gold burst into day. I found nothing, no one.\n\nAnother day went by, and then I saw it.\n\nOf the three, the last windmill was the biggest. Each groan of the millstone seemed the call of a collosus, each sweep of the sail defiant. A single man passed by at its feed, loading sacks of freshly ground flour onto a cart. His back was bowed like a comma. He did not look up as I came over the hill toward them.\n\nI could [[ride|tilt3]] and very possibly die. But it wasn't too late. I could still [[turn back|away]].

I rode on across what must have been an insignificant scrap of land, and on I went for hours before coming upon the second windmill. It was bigger than the first. The wooden sides were adorned with carvings in the shape of leaves and animals and biblical characters. It stood empty and alone, broken chains dangling down from its arms.\n\nI had a choice. I could [[tilt|tilt2]] as I had before, or I could avoid any further injury. I could [[ride on|ride2]].

I had to do this, I told myself. I would never find meaning by sitting still and doing nothing.\n\nSitting there atop the far-away hill, I steeled myself. To calm my nerves I watched the miller with his sacks of flour, and I noticed that one of his legs seemed shorter than the other. He did walk with a bit of a limp. If he stepped even by accident in front of my horse once we were galloping down the slope, he would be crushed.\n\nIt was only fair to warn him, I [[decided|warn]].

I threw myself at the windmill with everything I had, and when the windmill's arm and I collided I barely felt a thing. I grabbed a handful of sail with both hands and held on.\n\nThe windmill carried me up, up, toward the empty blue sky and below me I saw endless fields and, in the distance, the dark blotches that marked the human condition. Out there people were dying and loving and losing and where was the meaning in it all? To spend another day struggling to ensure another day spent struggling to ensure another? If there was a meaning to that I couldn't wait to hear it.\n\nMy hands began to slip on the sail, and as it reached its highest point I let go. It came as a surprise at the time, but it felt almost like flying.

\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSomeone once said "that which does not kill me makes me stronger."\n\nI don't think he knew what he was talking about.\n\n[[Ride again|windmill3]].

The last thing I remembered was riding onward, crashing over the hill in pursuit of the windmill's sails. I couldn't say why the next thing I saw was a clear blue sky that seemed to go straight up for miles, and, leaning into my view, the face of the miller.\n\n"You fool," he told me. "You could have been killed. What on earth possessed you to do something so stupid?\n\n"No," he said, "don't try to get up. I imagine you aren't feeling so great [[right now|tilt4]]."

I rode on across what must have been an insignificant scrap of land, and on I went for hours before coming upon the second windmill. It was bigger than the first. The wooden sides were adorned with carvings in the shape of leaves and animals and biblical characters. It stood empty and alone, broken chains dangling down from its arms.\n\nI had a choice. I could [[tilt|onward3]] as I had before, or I could avoid any further injury. I could [[ride on|rideagain2]].

With shaking hands I lowered that lance and I charged. There was no room to hesitate, I knew, and I willed myself on. But as I rode a sudden gust of wind ripped the sail from my view and I staggered on alone, carried by my momentum.\n\nHow does one miss a windmill? I wondered.\n\n[[Onward and upward|onward4]].

"Bring on the [[giants|lyrics]]."

"Great?" I repeated. "Great? [[Great|tilt5]]?"

"I don't feel great.\n\n"I feel [[extraordinary|tilt6]]."

Megan Stevens

More hours passed. The evening faded into night, then with a brilliant flash of autumn gold burst into day. I found nothing, no one.\n\nAnother day went by, and then I saw it.\n\nOf the three, the last windmill was the biggest. Each groan of the millstone seemed the call of a collosus, each sweep of the sail defiant. A single man passed by at its feed, loading sacks of freshly ground flour onto a cart. His back was bowed like a comma. He did not look up as I came over the hill toward them.\n\nI could [[ride|tilt34]] and very possibly die. But it wasn't too late. I could still [[turn back|away4]].

It wasn't worth it, not after what happened the last time. As I rode past the windmill, carefully, I noticed that what had seemed to be intricate woodwork from afar was actually rather crude and worn. There was no difference up close between a tulip and a wise man. The baby Jesus seemed to have no arms.\n\nJust as well, I thought. No one would miss them [[anyway|anotherwind]].

They were windmills, I told myself. There had to be something more to lift than windmills. [[Right|onward2]]?