Grey Skies, Warm Souls

 

Grey Skies, Warm Souls

I can’t quite remember when last we wrote about the nomadic life.

Surely it can’t be that long ago—after all, today is only our second Monday here.

But it feels as though we’ve been here forever.

Not in the dragging-the-time kind of way.

In a soul-settled, barefoot-familiar kind of way.

The dunes know me already. The sand welcomes me like an old friend.

So—what do nomads do when it rains?

(I know many are burning to ask this question.)

Today started with yet another quick run to the mall to sort out the Wi-Fi.

No comment.

Let’s leave it at that before I say things that need censoring.

When I got back, I went for a walk on the beach. As always, I headed straight for the sea, my usual little ritual—walk down, stop, breathe, look left, look right… and walk.

But today felt different.

To my left, the sky was ominously dark—thick, heavy clouds brewing something serious.

To my right, bright blue open sky. Hopeful. Almost theatrical in its beauty.

And for some reason, I chose the dark side.

Maybe I thought, let’s just get this side done quickly.

But I didn’t walk far. It got intense—wind picking up, clouds whispering warnings.

So I turned around and headed toward the light.

That’s when I felt the first fat raindrops hit my leg—like little surprise slaps from the sky.

Before I knew it, my peaceful beach stroll had turned into a full-on sprint.

Adrenaline rushing. Legs remembering they can still run.

I was drenched, laughing, grateful.

Back in the caravan, dry and warm, the rest of the day unfolded in slow comfort.

Chicken and vegetable soup simmered. Coffee and cherry liqueur both had their turn (or two).

And my mother and I—well, we are perfectly content in each other’s company.

We don’t need to entertain or be entertained.

We sit.

We stare at the sea.

We read.

We listen to music or the radio.

We just are.

The grey, the cold, the wet—that’s all outside.

Not in our bones. Not in our souls.

And as I’ve said before—there’s no shortage of warmth here:

Mohair socks, beanies, scarves, layers upon layers of blankets.

We may be in a caravan, but it’s as warm as any house I’ve ever known.

And so the rain falls, the waves whisper, and time stretches softly around us. We are not rushing. We are not restless. This nomadic life, for all its movement, has settled something in us. For now, the road is still, the kettle is on, and everything we need is right here.