|Image from Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Division|
Mama said gypsy was in our blood. Some ancestors were palm readers.
I hated moving as a child. I still have a bit of a nostalgic side. Clinging to the things a want to remember. The people. The experiences.
Somewhere along the way though I retained some of those gypsy tendencies. After leaving home and off to college, I developed a habit of moving at least every two years. Before I moved to the mountains, I spent the better part of 15 months living out of suitcases, hopping from town to city to airplane to car.
When I finally landed in these mountains, I found a place with just enough room for my very own closet and called it my own. Friends thought I was crazy for living in such tiny quarters. I declared the four walls and a closet of the tiny mill studio perfect. And I was happy.
It started gradually. As I hit the two-year mark, I was still settled in. Then short months before the three-year mark, a rustle started stirring from somewhere deep within. Somewhere unexpected. I argued with the voices that told me it was time.
"But this is perfect. It's ideal. It's just right for me." I'd try to convince my inner gypsy to settle down. To be happy.
Her voice only grew stronger. Louder.
As the four-year anniversary of my occupation of the mill house crept up, so did the realization that I hadn't lived somewhere that long since I graduated from high school. And the gypsy began to scream.
"it's time. It's time. It's TIME. IT'S TIME." Came her cries, like a train approaching from the outskirts of town.
I could ignore her no longer. Her voice, a siren, I couldn't resist. I gave my notice. I packed my bags. I made arrangements. And loaded up my car. And finally I said "goodbye" to the little mill studio that had been my home for 4 years and two months.
I linked arms with the gypsy and am waiting to see where she takes me next. I'm back to where I was before my move to the mountains -- living out of boxes and suitcases and cars and the kindness of others.