So I’m back, to the velvet underground
Back to the floor, that I love
To a room with some lace and paper flowers
Back to the gypsy that I was
To the gypsy ... that I was.
— Fleetwood Mac, Gypsy

My gypsy soul and I, we gaze through wary lashes; I can see her in the mirror, and “can we talk?” she asks.

She is beautiful and dark, powerful and irresistible. I am under her spell. I can barely breathe. She, the source of all that is restless and warrioress and knowing within, she speaks with the voice of God: I am your life. Your fire. Your healing river. She is in my bones. She grips me; I cannot move without her, and maybe, because of her, I'm still alive? Yes, she whispers, and it is her that rises deep, rooted in the so(uls) of my feet.

She canalizes through women. If they are suppressed, she struggles upward. If women are free, she is free. Fortunately, no matter how many times she is pushed down, she bounds up again. No matter how many times she is forbidden, quelled, cut back, diluted, tortured, touted as unsafe, dangerous, mad, and other derogations, she emanates upward in women, so that even the most quiet, even the most restrained woman keeps a secret place for her. Even the most repressed woman has a secret life, with secret thoughts and secret feelings which are lush and wild, that is, natural. Even the most captured woman guards the place of the wildish self, for she knows intuitively that someday there will be a loophole, an aperture, a chance, and she will hightail it to escape. — Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

I write a new story now, days watered with unknown longings, fierce passions, unfolding mysteries. As long as I remain divorced from my feminine soul and the wild gypsy who lives in the breath of my being, I remain only half-alive, colorless, one-dimensional. Wholeness and healing culminate with invocation, with free-ness, with unity in flesh and soul and spirit. Why must my head override my heart, and my heart betray my mind? There is a way for them to dance into oneness, to become one flesh and one heart and one mind. The soul journey of life is about that, for me.

Each woman has potential access to Rio Abajo Rio, this river beneath the river. She arrives there through deep meditation, dance, writing, painting, prayermaking, singing, drumming, active imagination, or any activity which requires an intense altered consciousness. A woman arrives in this world-between worlds through yearning and by seeking something she can see just out of the corner of her eye. She arrives there by deeply creative acts, through intentional solitude, and by practice of any of the arts. And even with these well-crafted practices, much of what occurs in this ineffable world remains forever mysterious to us, for it breaks physical laws and rational laws as we know them. — Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

There is something about a return to innocence, a return to why you were born, a surrendering to what you were made for and what nourishes your life, your spirit-blood, that begins to make sense once you listen to the wild calling of your soul.

She is made for home. (Home)ostasis home. Moreover, she knows how to get there. She knows how to heal herself. Listen to her. Whether home is in the wind, on the high plains, in a dark shadow valley or a dry and dusty riverbed made for dancing, the gypsy finds her soul-home within the wildness of her spirit, by daring to let all the fragmented parts of her be drawn to the magnetic siren of her soul and be made whole, healed, and alive.

Take a deep, sweet breath, love. Don't be afraid of the dark. Sometimes the richest treasure is hidden in secret places.

by hillary rain | spiritsoulearth.com

In loving memory of Marion's husband, Ross Woodman, who passed away on the Spring Equinox, March 20, 2014.