Home is where the heart is, but there are days my heart wants to roam. “Gypsy days,” I call them. When home is not so comforting and I feel tethered to the kitchen stove, the laundry basket, the child- that smaller version of me- pulling at my shirtsleeve, pant leg, heart-strings. Life squeezes into a very fixed reference point on days like this. I have to work hard to remember that although our world feels small, it is as big and colorful as I allow it to be.
On gypsy days, I need to roam in other ways, by gathering up the scattered pieces of my imagination and piecing them together to create something new. Like an island of my making where we live ship-wrecked but happy, gathering water, food and logs for the campfire. We’re not stranded; we choose to stay because the stretch of beach where we sleep is sheltered from the wind and rain and filled with tropical breezes. It won’t always be like this. Ships will come and my companion will grow up. But for now, the island of my making is as good a place as any for my wild self to roam free.