Long ago, I read a poem about a gypsy who, wandering up a country lane, sees a house with looking welcoming, and a lady spinning within. At that moment, she longs to be within.
The housewife, looking out, seeing the gypsy in the wild free air, longs to leave her spinning and go out traveling.
I've often felt like that gypsy. Many times, I've looked at a friend who has stayed in one place all their lives and wished that I too, could be comfortably sitting in a place I could truly call home, that I could be a sitting stone, comfortably gathering moss (to mix metaphors). Some day I hope to paint that scene of the poem -- but not today.
Today the wind is calling. I am the wanderer seeing the downy seed dancing on the wind and longing to follow.
Perhaps the Maker of the wind will give me leave.
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