The Gypsy Woman

The gypsy woman softly brushes her child’s hair. The sun is high, but the night will come before long. In the sunlight she squints so she tilts her head down. The brim of her battered felt hat shadows her heavily rimmed eyes. She is told that her eyes are a piercing pale blue and an edgy contrast to her wild and dark hair, soft as silk, but tame as brambles. As she brushes her love’s hair, her own caresses her neck. It’s long and spirals. It flows over her left shoulder. The shadow over her eyes leaves only her nose and lips visible. Her olive skin covers prominent cheek bones. Her lips, a pale rose. Her nose is adorned with a small gold hoop on the right side. It reminds her of an earlier time. It marks a time of existentialism for her.

The gypsy woman is a drifter, a nomad, a learner. Through art, spirit, and music, she searches for her Nirvana, her Heaven, her home, her truth. She is young and intelligent, but blindly stumbles in wonder and investigation. She knows answers are no where to be found, but she searches regardless.

The gypsy woman is a seeker. A desire for understanding pulses through her veins and trembles in her nimble and worn fingers. Her fingers are long, slender and delicate. The nails are filed and smooth, but the dirt of the earth has made its home beneath the tips. The earth connects with her. She does not worship the earth, but the two understand each other. Her greatest natural love is that between her and the rocks. The mountains and the boulders. As a child, she would climb. Climb up the mountains, scramble the rocks. Each time her fingertips stroked the surface of a boulder or felt the firm grasp of the granite and sandstone in her palm as she ascended, a sense of calm flowed through her. The touch was almost sensual. As a child, she would lay on the rocks in the sun and nothing in the world was more relaxing or comforting. The rocks were her foundation. To her, they would never move, they would never change. They were bigger than she and that gave her perspective. Something to grasp and something to trust in. Life is different now, and the mountains are no longer in sight. Instead, the horizon is speckled with vineyards and an olive orchard rests a few miles from her camp.

The gypsy woman is on her own. Her community is strong, but she herself is alone. Her child runs off to play, and the woman stands to brush off her long, flowing skirt. Her brackets jingle as she does so. She is not wearing shoes, but the grass is long and plush. She has shoes, but she would rather feel the coolness of the grass between her toes. She begins walking in the direction of the orchard.

The gypsy woman misses the mountains, but these trees will have to do instead. She looks up through the scattered sunlight, streams of golden light peep through the leaves. She reaches up and grabs a branch and begins to pull herself up. Her arms are strong, but she does not trust the trees like she trusts the rocks. Her strength supports her, but with a snap, the branch betrays her and she falls back to earth. Shaken, but not discouraged, she climbs again.

The sun kisses her lovely cheekbones as she lifts her head to greet its rays. The view from above is incredible. And for a fleeting moment, she has found her home.

…

The gypsy woman sleeps now. She sleeps. Her eyes have taken an eternal slumber and she lies with her sweet earth. The rings on her fingers are still there. The life she led was blessed and those her knew her were blessed by it. Her pale blue eyes shall never again greet another’s, for her delicate lashes are now intertwined as if she were closing her eyes enjoying the sun once more.

The gypsy woman searched her whole life, but never found. Not on earth at least. She never found her Nirvana, her Heaven, her home. In glimpses and moments she felt it. Now, she faces the One. Her delicate fingers may no longer tremble, and her yearning heart may never beat, but she feels it now. She feels it.

Pure, unparalleled Truth.