Consensual Joy

In Normandy and Brittany, the icy north wind blows lustily off the ocean. It was so in 1961 and will be so in April. Do I care?

As an adventurer I should answer, “No, of course not.” But that would be a lie. I care.

Three years ago, Thrim and I left our mountain home in Crestline, CA, to build an all-steel home in the Mojave Desert. We lived in a 5^th wheel which was at the mercy of the constant west wind.

As the RV rocked and rolled, buffeted by 30-40 mph gusts, I prayed it would stay upright and not go crashing into the row of oleanders separating us from the neighbors 200 ft away.

Once late night, I braved the wind to go outside and check on the skeleton of our house. Stars shone through the red iron girders erected earlier that day by our friends and held together by bolts. The iron moaned like a wounded ship while I clung to it and prayed. How long could steel survive such an onslaught?

Thrim slept soundly in the RV -- I wrote a haiku for the occasion:

#1

Raging wind screams

and torments our newborn house.

How can Thrim still sleep?

The desert wind isn’t always so angry and adversarial. Sometimes in the morning it is mysterious and smells of the sea. I don’t know how it manages that, but it does and I love it.

#2

Wild gypsy wind calls!

I run, barefoot, coatless, free.

Consensual joy!

So here’s the deal. I respect the wind (and rain) enough to be prepared. As my defense against the winds in Normandy and Brittany, I have a bright yellow windbreaker. To keep dry, there’s a big plastic cape that covers even my backpack. Under that, I have layers of those new miracle fabrics. Even an adventurer can be prepared. So, wind and rain? Bring it on!