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Monday, August 25, 2014

The mystical bird

The little gypsy girl thinks that the sun is a blazing bird, and that the bird has moved inside her body…


The sun-bird builds her nest in the wilderness that, like the bird itself, lives inside the little gypsy girl's body—dreams, skills and aptitudes gifted to her through generation of gypsy ancestors…


The bird stirs inside her body trapped in summer heat waves...  Feathers aflame, a flap of feverish wings... the little gypsy girl quivers.  Though closer still blinds and gypsy veils she pull to keep her colorful gypsy tent cool, the bird agitates, burning everything in a rumpus of wings...


Heat and humidity exhaust her.. evaporation is slowed, her body must work extra hard to maintain normal temperature… 


The little gypsy girl seeks the rains and bathes in morning dew trying to calm the burning bird inside her body, but the bird empowers its will… precious peace dilutes in empty songs through ring embellished fingers.  This is always, and forever, August in the South.  The little gypsy girl is not used to it.


She must fleet to the mountain without delay… it is essential that she moved quickly.  And thus, she readies herself… spilling skirts, colorful scarves covering her mane… her pink box overflowing with this and that… 

 
 Necessities she must carry at all times with her…


Some favorite books, her computer, a garment or two…


So down the gypsy paths she goes, seeking the cool breezes of higher grounds…


She is taking the old gypsy wagon with her... a song, a poem, her beau...


Discovering new trails, through untraveled roads…


They finally found the perfect spot...


Take out the chairs...


Park the gypsy trailer under the trees...


Fishing poles and fuzzy worms… her beau is right at home!


She embellishes her boudoir...


With gypsy candles and tea lights.


 She had traded the old velvet curtains for some lace…

  
White to ease the heat of summer…



But the little gypsy girl is still burning... the sun-bird inside her laughs! 
She must go to the waters...
Forget her gypsy skirts
Be free
Let her spirit soar…


She studies the skies above her head… 


And she prays and wishes and hopes.


And for a strange little moment
gentle cool breezes blew across their camp
whispering winds swayed shaggy trees...
The bird... the phoenix inside the little gypsy girl 
flew away...


Hope you all are doing well
Sending you some magic breezes your way...




Sunday, August 3, 2014

Sleeping in the forest...

Oh good evening!  I'm so happy to see you here... do please roam in and settle by the campfire of our Gypsy Camp


It is hot, humid and very crowded, but at night the moon glanced down between the giants under whom green boughs rested our gypsy tents… and comes the sun what a wonderful place for viewing wildlife… white-tailed deer, black bears, raccoons, turkeys, woodchucks, and more… all in a place beautifully covered by beautiful dense forests.


What a challenge it was the 11-mile one way road on our bicycles… and again, wonderful, and refreshing and one of the best opportunities to encountered a real life bear… so close I could had touch him had I wanted to… but nay.  Captured forever within the lenses of memories, I fleet.


Amazing views of rolling hills and green fertile valleys…  


Touring the 19th century home sites where the emptied log houses once stood alive with families and life was less than reading a few chapter of yesterdays, and rather, a melancholy, yet glorious way of reviving that past… a past it did not belong to me, and yet in a way, it felt so particular and personal, it made me shivered… I could imagined the family seating by the fire after a simple dinner, outside the fireflies illuminating the premises and in the morning the laugh of children playing in the green surroundings…and perhaps, I was, after all, walking in another life?  A life paralleled to my present one?  If not, I like to think it that way.  



In the quietness of the old quite little church we worshiped… two souls and the Holly One… and at the sound of our quiet prayer the sound of wings—the furtive flight of a bird in the vessel which held us, and which for a fraction of time worshiped next to us, emulating our devoutness… what a glorious moment that was.


 And round our gypsy camp… 


Beardy musicians and preposterous mustached ladies and bush craft experts and fortune tellers and sellers of magic amulets, while you… oh you wandering and wondering… letting your spirits out and the magic in, indulging in spell-making, and bird watching and oh oh… 


 Discovering fragments of dinosaur bones too!


Campfire cooking… no matter how spectacular the scenery, meals around the campfire are often the highlight of our days...


Good company… pleasant moments…
In the gypsy tent where gypsies gather and love is a little bird fluttering about…


The man’s cave, all white and simple.


 The gypsy kitchen…


This is supposed to be our dinning table inside the camper, but we always always end up eating our meals outside. This table is then our reading room, where every evening after we settle in for the day we spend hours reading, or watching a movie while enjoying a cup of hot cocoa until finally sleep conquer us...


Yesterday, just before that moment when the first shadows recaptures the day’s light into its embrace, the sun decided to shine straight upon my niche, making everything there shine with a magical light... how very enchanting the moment was… 




 
Shadows finally giving way to the balmy night…


Sleeping in the forest among vermilion veils and threads of gold… 


Truly magical!


I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

(from Sleeping In The Forest by Mary Oliver)

Good night every one
Hope you enjoyed your little trip
to our gypsy camp
see you next time!