My grandmother always told us we had gypsy blood.

I never knew what this meant, but it sounded romantic. Like something out of a fairytale. I felt like I was part of something great and beautiful. I had an ancient history, and I liked that. These feelings never diminished as I grew. Soon enough, I was “proving my grandmother right.” I’m the dreamer. The wild one. The restless wanderer. The one who can pick up and go and be just fine.

A friend once said to me, not knowing my history, “You’re just a regular gypsy, aren’t you?!”

I liked that, too.

I’m still not sure what it means, or if I have any right to be calling myself a gypsy. I’m not convinced it matters. Like this blog, I’m still working on it.


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