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March 31—the gypsy Fisherman decided it was time to flung open the gypsy caravan and go explore the world again.

“Oh, but it still is so cold for camping!” “But how could you possibly be cold?” “No, it is not possible.” “But I am!”.  And thus, we went to the dunes and camped there for a day and a half and two nights. And it was indeed cold and windy, but it was also so very glorious, and lovely, and the sun shone strong, as strong as chilly winds blew sands in the distance, and I watched the sun come over the sandbanks as half a dozen robins slept in nearby leafless bony trees, and with the kiss of dawn, the wee cries of baby coyotes in the hirsute sagebrush of the high desert...

We sipped heaps of vanilla caramel lattes from the comfort of our gypsy caravan and munched on grapes, corn chip and creamy cheese sauce.  The Fisherman surprised me by packing my softest, warmest pjs ever, and an extra-large extra fluffy extra warm blanket in my favorite color, and it felt like a soft, warm sheep on my skin, and he made sure that the heater was on all night and that my feet were warm, and I loved it all, and thank him, as usual, for compelling me to come out of my cave and do things to which I would always say ‘no’ to in the beginning, and always end up loving later… Because, that’s just the way I am.  And he knows me. 

There was a huge birdhouse on the tree just above by where our gypsy caravan slept, and I prayed for an owl to visit, because this is their habitat and all mated pairs are permanent residents of their territory, and one such pair calls these dunes home.  But I never saw one.

We rode our bicycles on sandy desert paths, the Fisherman put on his waddling fishing boots and went out to the marshes while I collected rocks, we cooked a meal or two, ate pineapple, rice pudding and lentil soup. The downing sun was a fire ball outside the gypsy caravan on the West—big and bright and dying gold at 7:30pm.  We read our books until daylight turned into evening, and the voices of the desert muffled out into the hunting songs of night, we said our prayers and reflected on Jesus dying on the cross—oh holy moment that holy Friday, eternities ago.

   

On Saturday night all winds got loose.  The wilderness shrieked under its ferocity, things were tossed around, sand swirled and dance frenetically and our gypsy caravan felt like a kite in the wind, being pushed from side to side by strong winds as our roofs creaked and doors were slammed.  It was a frightful little night, until everything calmed down, and only the sound of our heater going on and off remained... and we drifted off to sleep on the wings of desert nights...

The following morning, Sunday of Resurrection, the world woke up wrapped in glorious sunshine and quiet serenity… as if the new morning itself was reminding us that within every ending is the seed of a new beginning…

I love Nature and the quietness I find in its great emptiness.  To it I go when I want to find my soul... we are the ones with the messy hair, the dirty feet and the wild sparkle in our eyes…