The ill-rooted Gypsy

Maybe I had never been a gypsy.  Or maybe it was just becoming unfamiliar.  I was sure I had missed the window and had found my self with deep-unrelenting roots.  The kind of roots that burrowed so deep it would take heavy machinery to pull them out.  The solid trunk and beautiful mature branches had proven capable of withstanding even the roughest seasons.

My image was flipped upside down.  Not the image others saw of me because on the outside I had remained unchanged.  It was within that life was shaken up.  It was my internal world was now on it’s head.

I had always welcomed the “gypsy” label.  If I had to wear a title it was the most honest one I felt described me.  If I was honest it was the one thing I had striven to be my entire life.

A Gypsy.  It seemed mysterious and romantic.  Exciting and adventurous.  But now….was it true?  It was painful to look objectively at it and count the ways in which I wore this lie.  Wanting to travel and actually traveling.  These are two different things.  Realistically, fantasizing about wanting to go away and never leaving for more than a weekend trip was almost hypocritical.  Dishonest.  I swore I wasn’t dishonest but even in wearing this label had proven the opposite.  Every chance I had to be away – I was swept up by the misery.  I was swept up by the pain that hung over me – until I returned to the safety of my home.

Like I said.  My life has been turned up on it’s head.  I see now that a gypsy life is hard.  It’s never building life long relationships, it’s not pushing passed superficial images, it’s not being reliable or sometimes capable of caring for ones own long-term needs.

What are the long term needs of a woman.  No longer a dreamy girl.  But a woman owning her ability to choose and no longer be led.  I guess that’s one of them.  A need to own the ability to choose.  The need to be self-centered enough to make sound decisions and confident in your ability to bounce back from the consequences of unsound choices.

Maybe there was some weight to the thought that a gypsy was unreliable.  As in you didn’t know what risks or choices they would make.   That was what allured me.  The idea of making risky choices and recovering from the unrecoverable risks.

A glimpse back at reality would show very solid and safe decisions.  Decisions made out of fear instead of drive.   This was who I had been.  The true story behind my need for freedom.  

Your ill-rooted gypsy.








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