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It’s Windy, but the New Day Beckons

NOTE: This was written April 30th, just before we packed up to drive to San Felipe.

The last night that we were in Bahia de Los Angeles, we experienced the most intense winds we’d experienced during all of our time in Baja. Our camper rocked, as the wind swirled and twisted around us. We kept the slides in so the wind couldn’t grab hold of them and rock us even further. Somehow the boys slept through the gale force winds (seriously, they were probably low level hurricane winds!)

The winds calmed a bit at dawn, though on my morning walk, it was strong enough to grab my hat and toss it nearly 20 feet behind me.

Later that morning, before we packed up to drive to San Felipe, I wrote this:

It’s windy, but I am alive.

It’s so gusty, sand is stinging my bare legs, but the sun is shining on the nearly bare gray, orange, and black rocks of the mountains towering over the bay.

It’s windy, but I am in love with my partner, my children, this new day.

It’s windy, and even sleeping with ear plugs jammed in all the way couldn’t stop the whistling and the howling. It’s windy, which doesn’t even begin to describe the way the R.V. shook and shuddered and spazzed all night long.

Last night at your birthday dinner, sweetheart, the wind played games with our paper plates, flipping them and their food into the air. We didn’t care. We laughed and shouted, “Hold on to your plates!” as we celebrated the beginning of your 43rd year.

It’s windy, but my heart is beating.

It’s windy, so windy, and it’s roaring in my ears with its stories of where it’s been and what it’s moved, pushed, toppled, torn, and rolled with its strength.

It’s so windy, it’s hard to think.

But I can imagine a day when all I want is the wind to blow in my face, to whip at my clothes, that I’d take that over a hospital bed, or a fierce, head-splitting migraine, or a heart so broken it can barely beat. 

It’s windy, but the earth is still here, and so am, and so are we.

It’s windy, still, as I write this, windy claws and talons gaining purchase around the edges of the rig, threatening to unmoor us from solid ground. 

It’s windy, but the new day beckons, and the sun, indifferent to the bluster of the wind, is shining brightly.

Our rig, on some winding roads on the way out of Bahia de Los Angeles

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