gypsy vocabulary

Gypsies are the conscientious objectors to factory work
and to all the soul killing inventions of a haphazard society...

Gypsies retain the good human sense to enjoy life. 
They remember on a deep knowing level that life was not always like this... 

They may disdain society's harsh ways, ignore, stand aside, do without if necessary;
anything but let their life force be compromised by inhumanity in the form
of self-important institutions and self-declared authorities. 
kindness, generosity
Man is free.  Man is sovereign.  Of course that encompasses women...

At times, they will suffer these things, but they will never ally themselves with them. 
They will not forget.  They will retain the truths at their core...

The gypsy vocabulary lacks the words for duty and possessions....can you imagine?

My first experience of this was on Cape Breton Island many years ago. 
I lived down the way from a Welsh village.  I tell people to this day
that everything I ever learned about giving I learned from those good folk. 

If you were walking down the road on a fine day and the weather turned blustery,
it was perfectly acceptable to enter the nearest house and find yourself a sweater
or jacket to keep you warm.
You might return it or you might not... No one gave it much thought. 

I was told that the Welsh language also lacked a word for personal possessions.
No word ....thus no mental concept.  
It was a shared life. 
It allowed for the unfolding of kindness and generosity in a soul...
These are needful things for a good life...

Consider the difference for those living at the opposite end of the spectrum.
How much energy and precious life force is lost to greed and overconcern with possessions?

I know a woman who meticulously destroys everything she discards
so that no one else can have the use of them.    Old lamps, clothes, what nots...  
What madness and ill-will...

Why would anyone hinder anyone else's course through life?  Curses are born of this...

As a wise Gypsy observed: 
' Duty and possessions limit the emotional capacity of modern man...
they are the boundaries beyond which he cannot go...'     Bercovici

How do you know if you're a Gypsy?

Well...sometimes you don't!

This is a favorite...and true...story...Enjoy!

My Gypsy Sis Katherine divined her way into my life by way of a pendulum
suspended over the yellow pages of a phone book...
She needed a massage therapist and I needed an ozone practitioner.
Thus we were destined to meet...

She was just passing through but we became fast friends in our brief
time together. We have stayed in touch through her many sojourns.
The last time we got together, we embarked on a road trip to Chicago.
On that trip we discovered that we each had a huge fascination with
gypsy wagons. Not only those ornate treasures, but all things gypsy!
It’s not often that you run into someone who shares such arcane interests.
One topic led to another on that long drive and we revealed our secret
gypsy selves to each other.
It turned out that we both had wardrobe trunks filled with dancing costumes,
Indian jewelry, bangles, scarves.
When no one else was around we would dress up in our strange finery.
Every Halloween I would take on that persona in public. It was rapturous!

I was beginning to discover my real self...hiding under my plain exterior.
Soon after that discovery, I looked for any opportunity to play the gypsy.
Katherine had played a gypsy fortune teller at a benefit recently. I envied her.
I was a dance gypsy, following the folk dance circuit, living out of a suitcase
as often as possible...living for the sheer joy of the dance.
Half-living between times...

She and I had both been known to pick up and move home with our
few possessions on short notice.
The ease with which we did this mystified us both at times.

Wherever I travelled I sought out Gypsies.
I was inordinately attracted to them wherever they could be found...
on the streets of Sarajevo...on the edges of Sofia...the sea Gypsies
in the south of Thailand. But I digress...

We finally arrived in Chicago after dark...near midnight.
We headed for the lake on a beautiful and sultry summer night.
By the time we arrived all of the white folks had gone home
and the lake shore belonged to the immigrant families.
There was music and picnics, small fires. Perfect!
We found a place to park and got out to stretch our legs.

As we approached the lake shore, a small child glanced up at us.
A little boy, not more than three years old.
When he saw us emerge from the car and walk toward him,
his eyes went wide with wonder and he seemed transfixed by what he saw.
The child ran to his parents and clung to them in great excitement
and urgently whispered to them, eyes bright and shining:
Look! Mommy! Poppy!!
LOOK !!!

GYPSIES !!!”