ON THE ROAD - PART 1

Day 1 – October 30, 2013 – THE HOUSE IN THE ROSES

The last minutes in the garden... a silent valediction to everything that's been good to me, and precious and glorious; a gratitude of the heart; a most profound feeling of appreciation and thankfulness. And how silent and lonesome the garden had looked, devoid of all my statues and fountains and birdbaths; so lacking in sweetness and the charm provided by all my little darling friends... a riot of mellowness and humbleness, and burgundy vegetation mingling ever so unassumingly with the last of the summer roses—those lovely, extraordinary jewels of the end of a season; like that last sublime breath of the dying.

And on that bush—three perfect Bonica roses singing under the nippiness of the morning, and the chilliness of the autumnal air, with all the melancholy and enchantment of an unforgettable and ever changing October. The three perfect little roses—the three little loves of my womb?   Sweetly protected in my bosom forevermore. And for some unexplained reason, I thought of them, of my babies, on that long ago season of all winters when we first arrived here, more than twenty years ago...

How naive I then was, and how young and innocent at heart; incomplete, fragmented and so devoid of true devotion and nearly all the luster of a sanctified heart... how precious the gifts of age is, for only time can bring those changes to one's heart. Although it is now always like that.

And now it was time to leave. Leaves swirled about me as I stood there, under a shower of spreading yellows and toasted reds and deep oranges, content to stare and feel the crispiness and freshness and the purity of autumn against such amazing sky...

And the garden itself—how much it had grown in all these passed years. It grew. My heart's garden had grown too. So lovely, and so nurturing and gloriously content in the things that most humans cannot see, or can even begin to understand.

 

 

 

 

 

Hours later on that long road South I woke up to the realization that we were gone. Really gone and faraway from everything that we hold so dear to our hearts. A most sudden change in weather made me trembled, even inside the car. Rough winds rocked the sad vegetation of the Western cities, and a lowliness to a sky absent of any glory brought to mind places I have never seen, or never been to. Right at twilight Green River, WY, appeared on my left side out of the cold thin air like a blurry vision. Some ghost town that is—silently enveloped, as it was, by a ghostly-like white veil of thin snow. The lights of little houses down low on the road clumped together resembling tired fireflies in an island of igloos. How pathetically sad everything looked. Or was it just my heart?

Magical October

“There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir,

We must rise and follow her;

When from every hill of flame,

She calls and calls each vagabond by name”

William Bliss Carman

 

Little gypsy soul

At a flea market I always head for the junk jewelry table first.

Love it!

"Jewelry and pins have been worn throughout history as symbols of power, sending messages. Interestingly enough, it was mostly men who wore the jewelry in various times, and obviously crowns were part of signals that were being sent throughout history by people of rank" (Madeleine Albright)
 

 

"Whether I'm making a recipe or a piece of jewelry or a white-rose-and-jasmine tea or the perfume, I like to think of myself as a happy little sorceress, and if I could just have a little general store with all that stuff and give people a sense of my taste, that would be lovely". Padma Lakshmi

I like jewelry. Big rings, weird necklaces. Old books, long flowy skirts, clean wild hair and open skies... I like the smell of rain, I like mornings and sunshiny days.  My heart is a bohemian wandering the earth.  Cielo~ 

 

 

Gypsy girl...

Release the Autumn Gypsy,

O golden harvest moon

She longs to paint the season,

Rich in festive ornate hues

Jack Frost comes to play for her,

a cheery little tune and dance with Autumn Gypsy,

beneath the harvest moon

She'll play her Spanish fiddle and sing folksongs

tonight she’ll dance the Flamenco beneath the pale moon light

For tomorrow brings the close to another harvest season

her work here is complete without sorrow she’ll be leaving

Tis a gypsies life of travel to and fro never staying long,

but working as we go

A culture rich with lessons, music, dance and folksong

and families that bond together down the roads they travel on

Release the Autumn Gypsy

 O golden harvest moon

 Its time to paint the season for the Gypsy leaves here soon

 

(Written by Arcticbreeze)

In the land of the wolf

The Gypsies of nineteenth-century Spain travelled the countryside, carrying all their belongings in covered wagons and pitching tents wherever they stopped...
 

For Gypsies, travelling is not a pastime or leisure activity, but a way of life. In fact, a common belief of the latter part of the nineteenth century suggested that the inclination to travel, called “wanderlust,” was a product of genetic determinants.  And thus, the world passes by outside our gypsy caravan... through mountains and fascinating wildlands...

This weekend, our caravan came to a temporary stop right at the home of grizzly bears, wolves, and herds of bison and elk--a place called Yellowstone. The park is the core of one of the last, nearly intact, natural ecosystems in the Earth’s temperate zone and definitely one of the most amazing places on earth to visit.

When you venture down a trail, you discover wonders not many people who drive get a chance to experience.  Wildflowers are everywhere... yellow violets, strawberry, pasqueflower, arrowleaf balsamroot, phlox, paintbrush, lupine, low larkspur, sugarbowl, biscuitroot, and forget-me-not to name a few. Bears, love to roam amidst the many flowers carpeting the lush and magnificently green landscape with spots of color.

 

But the weather is fickle in the mountains. It can be sunny one minute, and cold and snowy the next. It rained all through the day on our first day, making people run for shelter while conceding an idea of the power of large wild animals...
 

It was pouring down rain when we got back at our camp... water formed some enormous puddle under your gypsy caravan, but the reality is that rather than feel miserable, I was static with excitement... camping in the rain is a beautiful experience... I love the music rain make on the roof of our gypsy caravan.... love the rain smell that comes through the windows, love making simple food in simple stoves and just sit to watch the water fall outside.

 

But the best of best comes later as night falls ever so slowly over the camp and the sound of rain intensifies above the silence... I love snuggling with my hubby, cozy, warm, and dry in our gypsy caravan while listening to the rain... I love to wear big puffy warm comfy PJs that matches with the colors of my bed and read my favorite books by the warm light of pretty candles.

 

 

 

I love it... love it all—cozy sleeping in colorful gypsy caravans, rain songs, the cry of the wild, its howl, wail; each road trip, each adventure. Perhaps life; bigger than all of us, will soon be taking us to new unfamiliar places, to new people and new spheres, but wherever life may be taking us, I hope and pray that we can continue enjoying our sense of wonder and wanderlust...

 

Good night my friend!