Gypsy

Change is good, so they say. 

Be it a throw pillow or a color scheme, or my inevitable desire to move someplace after I visit, I’ve always liked change. This year round warm weather does not do my soul good when all it craves is a tree of many colors or the grace that freshly fallen snow can bring. I have a gypsy soul with a thirst for wandering and a fear of stagnation and for years my gypsy and I journeyed joyfully together, from Midwest, to South, to East, to West, our adventures always outweighing the risk; our youthful spirit always confident of landing on our feet.

Then came marriage.  And a baby. Then another. And a separation with a finale of divorce.  Change. Change. Change. Change. Slowly my gypsy silenced as she watched from the sidelines and the years passed and her retreat grew long.  A sort of hibernation, awaiting her role, awaiting her turn to come around again. She knew she had to let me be because gypsies want to run away, but mothers have to stay. 

Change is good, so they say. 

But sometimes it feels like being chained to the back of an 18 wheeler and dragged across a gravel road for a few (hundred) miles. I wave frantically trying to get the driver to see me in the rearview mirror but it is useless as I am trapped in the blindspot. So instead I settle into the discomfort, convincing myself that the gravel isn’t really so bad. The gravel doesn’t really hurt so much. I drift to sleep thinking of my gypsy, dreaming of what adventure she might be on. I wonder if she’s disappointed in me, watching as I navigate my way. How did we land here,  she must wonder. Divorced in an isolated land of little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same. I take a chance. Gypsy? I whisper. And then I feel her nudge, her hibernation awakening. Gypsy-may I please run away with you? No you cannot, she replies. You must stay. I know, I say, and I arrange the gravel so it sits just right; so I can stand with it on my shoulders and not collapse from the weight. Gypsy retreats. 

Change is good, so they say.

 But it isn’t always recognized. Most people don’t want to recognize change, especially when it doesn’t pertain to them. It’s too scary. It’s too risky. Too comfortable to stay just where you are. I wonder what my gypsy thinks as she sees me smile to these swirling faces surrounding me, eager for my acknowledgment of contentment. Awaiting my approval of their decisions. Gypsy nudges me, and I push her down. Tell them, she whispers. Tell them about me, about us. No, no, it’s okay, I try to convince her. It’s okay. They can’t feel the gravel. It’s too much; I’ll just hold it for them. Gypsy retreats, having lost her round and as she begins to fade, I confide to her again. I want to run away. I know you do, she says. But you must stay. I try to offload some of the gravel, but it upsets my balance, so I pick it back up and rearrange once again so my legs don’t bend. 

Change is good, so they say. 

Gypsy, I panic. I need you. I have so many things to do. I forgot how to do all these things while in my warm cocoon of mothering.  Please will you help me? Scoot over, she whispers and there she sits as I trudge through piles of neglected mail, open my own bank accounts, leave my home, try to make a new one, call utility companies, pay my taxes, buy a car, acquire health insurance, pay them bills….all these things we are all supposed to do. She high fives me after each task, telling me it’s all going to be okay. We can land on our feet! We can still do this! We can still figure it out! Our adventures aren’t over yet! Her exuberance is infectious and I ask her again-can we run away?! No, she says. You must stay. Okay, I say…but then I feel some bits of gravel fall away. I wobble, then regain. A few freed pieces, just a tiny few, but then I hear her whisper…I’m proud of you.

Change is good, so they say.

Gypsy! I yell. We had so much we were going to do! All the things we were going to be! All the people we wanted to see! I’m trying to get this damn gravel off of me! Why won’t it be free? Why is it so stuck to me? How do I get back to you, Gypsy? Where do you sit when I’m trying to decide what I need to be? I’m sorry I left you alone all those years! I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I couldn’t be there, gypsy. Don’t you see? I had to quit raising me for a mother I was to be. I didn’t know how to be both; I didn’t know how to take you along. And now I want to run away and you refuse! I’m holding all this fucking gravel and you stand there watching me! I know it’s mine, I know it’s not yours but please can you free me of just a few more pieces? Please can you promise me that one day we can run away? 

Gypsy is quiet. She lets me cry, she lets me scream for no one knows me quite like…me. 

Gypsies want to run away, but mothers must stay. 

Gyspy, she whispers to me. You’ll always be a mother; that cannot be took. But don’t forsake me because one day you’ll find your gypsy soul exactly where it’s supposed to be because you weren’t afraid to change. You weren’t afraid to be who you are meant to be. 

A piece or two of gravel is quietly set free.

I wobble, then regain.

Change is good.

So they say.