A Gypsy wagon for my soul

I am fascinated by Gypsy wagons. The lure of roaming, packing up and moving on from place to place. Having few possessions, all with a purpose, and having them all tucked away and ready for the departure at any given moment. Being part of close knit band of people who's only responsibilities are themselves, their environment, and their loved ones. Like pirates on land.

When I was growing up in Eastern Iowa, my parents and grandparents would take us camping. All the cousins and aunts and uncles would be there. We'd line our trailers and pop up campers, a few of the boys had their own tents, along our camp site, and we'd spend the weekends relaxing in the sun, eating hotdogs and cherry pies cooked over the fire. The men would fish, the women would visit and tend the site, while we kids went down to the lake and swam for hours in the murky, muddy waters. How wonderful it would've been to stay there, in that safe, natural place, with the family I loved.
In those close quarters, my sister and I would share the top bunk of the trailer, and my parents would sleep where the folded down and the bench cushions were laid across it to make a bed. My stepfather would snore away while the rest of us giggled in amazement at the percussive sounds of his breath.
Tight quarters, yes, but what a safe feeling, for a young girl, to be surrounded by her family against wind and wild animals, throughout the night.

When I was in high school, a friend bought an old Chevy truck with a camper bed, which we readily converted into our own Gypsy wagon, and the love for the roaming home was rekindled in my spirit. Filled with our own art, poetry, music, and food, we'd don our hippie skirts and homemade sinew necklaces and hit the road. Iowa offers a Gypsy a lot of open space to wander and explore. We thought of this as the perfect life to tend to our unconventional dreams. Maybe not horse drawn, but we felt closer to the Gypsy lifestyle, just her and I, looking for a spot to build our campfire and toast our sandwiches. Inside, we'd curl up in soft blankets, undisturbed from the rest of the world. Taking care of each others spirits, we valued our freedom to be who we were, above all else.

In the late '90s  Travis and I took our own Gypsy trek. In a 1985 VW Weekender bus with a pop top and a bench that folded out into a queen size bed that was more comfortable than the futon back in our apartment, we took a two week honeymoon to Maine, making our away across this great country, through hail storms, headlight fires, and a seatbelt striped sunburn across Trav's bare chest. We two, inside our own private, rolling home, we bonded together, breathed together, and made the first two weeks of marriage a story of a lifetime. It was on that trip that I became amazed at how kind some people can be, I met a great deal of Gypsy-like characters I probably never would've noticed, except for their decision to reveal themselves to me, as I was one of their kind. So young, so naive, at 21, the adventure was my last taste of true Gypsydome.

I long to return to those days of my life when my dreams weren't so defined. When 'what may come' was the world wide open. Where anything could happen! A life of infinite possibility. Before I ever knew the inside of an office job, a mortgage, and responsibilities that were not to myself and my loved ones. 

I find in times, right before epiphanies, right before realizations, right before eye opening revelations, my mind returns to images of Gypsy wagons, and the make shift versions I have been a part of. These things that fascinate me, that inspire me to become a better person.

I find myself thinking of the roots of a person, whether they are truly meant to be planted so deeply, or if there are some who may be more like top lying moss, organic and surfaced, not meant to burrow deep into the dirt. 

I let my mind stay with these thoughts here for a while, where they feel comfortable and inspired. As if inside my head, there's a Gypsy wagon waiting to pull out and hit the road. Waiting to roam.....