Julio has gone from being a dishwasher to an artist in residence, our residence, and I could not be happier. He takes self-doubt and desire for expression to an outside canvas, opens paint jars and steps into his private piece of heaven. He is a beginner, unseasoned and open, living in Ojai where masters reside. His passage will not be simple but is fully his, a door opening, a passion, a path. 

He is being mentored by Gino Hollander, an international treasure and 87 year old legend. Gino writes: “This beginning time for Julio is hugely exciting and equally insecure, something each starter of anything worthwhile for the soul has to deal with. The more he is involved with painting and himself and working things out by himself, the better. For me, I want no one around when I work nor any comments. Painting is a very personal thing. What maintains the work is the aloneness with it. I won’t be commenting in the hope that he works and works and works. As he applies himself with time and effort and sincerity something incredible will happen.”

Greek mythology gives the ‘credit’ in incredible to the muse, their source of inspiration for the arts. Here is what I imagine:

Each time we make the effort to create anything we are knocking on the door to another realm, which is opened or not – by the spirit or spirits who oversee mastery.  When you begin knocking you are not taken seriously. You’re a first time visitor and nothing more. You knock. A spirit peers through the window – says, “I don’t know you,” and turns away.

If you come the next day, the next week or the next month, the spirit will begin to identify your face, but still the door will not open. These are the days when the less serious give up, going on to something other.  “That wasn’t for me,” they’ll say. “I just wasn’t feeling it.”

It’s only when you forge a path by coming day after day and week after week, when you wear the soles of your shoes thin with travel and your thirst is deep enough, that the bolt on the door begins to unlock. And still, it does not open wide, only a crack, allowing crumbs of inspiration to fall into eager outstretched hands. 

Then finally, after months or years of traveling the same path, on a day when you least expect it, something changes. The door is thrown open and you are warmly greeted by spirits anticipating your arrival, perhaps having discussed which gifts to endow over morning toast and tea. You are expected. You’re family now and they want you to succeed. This is no longer a strangers place, but part of breathing in and out. You have tapped omnipotent mind and become a vehicle for earthy expression.

Some folks call this discipline, a word I’ve never liked, because it engenders sister words like restraint, control and obedience, expressions that don’t fit my idea of creativity. I prefer words like perseverance, heart-connection or even crazed. But whatever you name it, stepping out of the ordinary into worlds of imagination and vision brings you closer to the sacred pulse of the universe.

And so I wait, watching from the calm of my sitting room as Julio begins his journey. He is a determined walker and his thirst profound, leaving no doubt that the doors of mastery will eventually swing open and he will be embraced by all that is.

 

A quiet morning. My car is broken and my body the same, so there is a welcome lack of running around. I think of all the things I have to do and am grateful for the respite, a time to reflect and write. I look out at adirondack chairs with peeling paint and rotting wood. The man who delivered them distaining my choice, “These are nothing more than firewood.” But I know I can sand and scrap and fill and repair until they shine with new life. But not today.  

I own a bookcase now which is a revelation in itself and one of the reasons I can’t move from my bed. The young part of me thought it fine to carry it in, but my intention landed on months of lifting, hauling, hammering and Thanksgiving cooking. My body screamed, “Enough” and down I went.

The bookcase is a big solid fellow standing firm and steady, like a living room sentry emanating stability and a sense of home. Without fully realizing it, I’d made a decision long ago to keep moving and stay light on my feet, because where ever I landed would be temporary, a resting place until the next place and the next and the next. I needed to keep moving, which meant owning few possessions.

I had therapy about my lack of connection to place and earth, blaming it on my spiritual nature, personal wiring, or disconnection to family. It became something to live with and endure, a depressed sad place, like a low grade toothache that would never be repaired.

But then I moved south to Ojai and the sun and a tiny town of artists filled with people I could relate to. I rented a big house and found myself filling it daily with treasures from sales and thrift stores. The hunter gatherer in me came forward and the minimalist walked away. I’m putting down roots now, bookcase kind of roots, which are heavy, lasting and not easily moved.

Who is this person with all this furniture? Is she some relation to me? Life is so new and different and rich and sweet, with none of the adjustment trauma I feared – just a homecoming pure, simple and over-due.

Dear Julio works in the house and art space making earthy magic while dancing salsa and singing Spanish songs, friends Gino and Barbara tell me stories of Spain as they luxuriate in creativity and 60 years of passion. Lee makes silly jokes at the thrift store, delivering purchases in exchange for homemade cookies, and Teryn, a Portland real estate transplant, has embraced me like a lost sister. Old friends, clients and family stay connected, reminding me that I’m still loved and cared for. And I have my son, Clay, Khrystyne and my California granddaughter near, so where is the trauma in that?   

Diminishing funds return my thoughts to healing work, an obligation to reinstate my financial life, but the work refuses to manifest, because it belongs to the person I left behind.

And so I wait and get scared and anxious, but mostly I trust, because the universe has brought me away from rain and wet and grey and dark and pneumonia, into a place of natural splendor and light. Surely this last piece will come forward as well, like the final note of a symphony hovering in the air – waiting for just the right moment to sound.

I’ve devoted my adult life to helping people heal so they could stop living in pain, and learn to embrace joy and possibility instead. This was not an easy work.  It could have been, if I’d done it halfway, seeing people on the hour every hour for the fee alone, but that was not my style.  The work was intense and deep so I could do little of it, which often resulted in living hand to mouth.

I drove economy cars, my favorite being a Nissan Sentra, which I bitterly grieved when it broke beyond my ability to fix.  I was married at the time with a holiday trip to Los Angeles planned, so we scurried about searching for a vehicle in our price range. At the last minute we found a 2002 BMW which drove like a dream. The used car guy gave us a deal and the credit union plugged us in at $200 a month. It was doable. The car was definitely a boy car with black leather interior, glowing jet plane dash and sports tires hugging the road on every curve, the price of gas and repairs astronomical. The car was a thoroughbred race horse in need of exquisite care.

One year after purchase, my recently married husband split, offering car payments as a parting gift. Then my mother died, leaving me enough money to move from Oregon – bless her generous soul. And so I arrived in my new California home looking like a rich lady with a fancy car and some bills in her pocket, instead of the single welfare mom I’d been most of my life. 

The thing is – I am just me, the same country girl I’ve always been who is not afraid of hard work, dresses for comfort instead of fashion, and has no airs at all. But apparently my car speaks louder than I do.

People believe that folks who drive BMW’s are rich. They just do and I used to too. I remember when a young doctor came for sessions, asking for a sliding scale. I considered his school loans and said yes, but when I saw him speed off in a vintage Beemer I was furious. “That’s the last time I’m giving anyone a sliding scale,” I said aloud. I felt had, taken advantage of, resentful, and all because of my beliefs about his car. 

Let me back up here and share some of my BMW interactions.

First there was my client, Susan, who drove a brand new BMW while speaking of her financial woes. Her abusive husband had more money than God, but kept her on a tiny budget, causing her to steal grocery money for our sessions. “Things are not always as they appear,” she told me.

Over dinner, a woman from my writing group expressed how much she hated those BMW drivers – those people. “They always push ahead of everyone else on the freeway and have no manners at all.”

“But I’m not like that,” I countered. “Maybe it’s because the car is a race horse and doesn’t like to be reined in.” She was unconvinced. I had crossed a line and there was no way back.

My own daughter was uncomfortable driving the car to her daughter’s environmentally conscious school where the parents walk, bike or arrive in old Volvo’s. “What will people think?” she said “That car is not the image I want to convey.”

The BMW stigma baffled me, so I asked a client to share his thoughts as we made conversation on the way to his KIA station wagon. “Why do you think folks dislike BMW drivers so much?”  He didn’t hesitate. “Those people think their crap doesn’t stink.”  Those people.

Another client, a world famous rock star who tours the globe making several million a week often used sessions to lament discrimination toward the rich. At the time I thought I’d like to have such a problem. Only now do I begin to understand. Folks in Oregon have yelled at me, tried to force me off the road or made nasty slurs as I’ve driven by, things they never did when I drove the Sentra. 

In Ojai, at a recent yard sale, a man drove off in his BMW, and the woman having the sale was upset. “I don’t believe it. Here I was giving him deals and he drives away in a BMW.” I remembered the young doctor I’d felt the same way about and decided to explain that all BMW drivers were not rich. She was unconvinced.

Only yesterday my friend Barbara, being sympathetic to the 99% movement, waved her support through my car window, then felt embarrassed. “Oh my gosh, here I am saying I’m supportive while driving around in a BMW. How ridiculous that must seem.”

And this morning my friend Julio recoiled when I offered to drive him in search of employment. “No, no Karen. If I show up in a BMW, no one will think I need the work. I’ll take my bike.”

So that’s my story. Ordinary girl buys extraordinary car and gets stuck in a societal box. Don’t you think that’s a lot of authority for a car to have?  I sure do.

Truth be known, a pick up truck would serve my wants much better for the hauling, gardening and transporting I need, but I do love the way the car drives, its elegant spirit and beautiful interior.

And sometimes I have to admit that its fun and even helpful to have folks believe that I’m wealthy and successful, because in many ways I am. So for the time being, I’m that rich lady who drives around Ojai in her Beemer. Sometimes in a twilight zone of prejudice, but all the time enjoying a car that handles like it was made in heaven. 

It was five o’clock in the morning when I slammed on the brakes at my new house, eager to unload the things I’d stored in my son’s garage. I fumbled in the dark, balancing keys in one hand and boxes in the other. There it was, the click of the lock. I pushed the door open, than abruptly stopped. There were sounds coming from the back room. Alarmed, I dropped the boxes and switched on the light. Then I heard it again, only louder this time, a kind of scurrying and shuffling.

“Is anybody there? Is somebody in my house?”

I went to the back bedroom, opened the door and saw a young man looking embarrassed and ashamed.

“What on earth are you doing in my house?”

“I’m sorry, I’m very very sorry,” he mumbled in halted English. “I just needed a place to sleep.”

“How did you get in?”

“Oh, I didn’t break a window or anything, just took the screen off and climbed through.”

My memory flashed to opening the back window before I left for Los Angeles. Seemed like a good idea at the time but I was regretting it now. He’d settled on the bed, a bare mattress waiting to be removed by the last tenant.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated, covering his face with his jacket. “I just needed a place to rest.”

I studied his face for a moment, then grabbed a blanket and pillow from the trunk.

“Here, if you came to sleep, then sleep. I’m going to be moving things inside now, so it’ll be a little noisy. I’m going to close your door so you won’t be bothered.”

“Let me help you.”

“No, you came to sleep, so get as much as you can. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” 

I made trip after trip from the car to the house, all the time thinking how desperate and broke a person must be to enter a stranger’s home for shelter. 

Julio woke at 7.30, came out and apologized once again. I’d unloaded boxes but had no furniture for our ‘talk’ so we sat together on the floor.

“Tell me about yourself.” I asked.

He seemed shy and humble, told me he was 35 years old, had lost a job in electronics in Santa Barbara after being hurt in a car accident and come to Ojai with the idea of working in the orange groves. He had his bachelor’s degree and hoped to learn internet marketing when he recovered. But just last night he’d found work washing dishes from 9.30 in the morning, until 9.30 at night, with a two hour break in the middle. He was determined to keep the job but had no place to stay, so decided to sleep on the street. He’d tried sleeping near the library but was told to move along, then remembered the real estate sign that had been in front of my house.

“Are you going to call the police? Have them put me in jail?”

“Nope,” I answered. “I’m going to give you breakfast, wash your clothes and let you stay here until you get on your feet. How does that sound?”

Apparently it sounded pretty good because his eyes watered and he launched into ways he could earn his keep by helping in the garden or the house or anything else I could think of.

After our talk, he left to wash dishes, at least a one mile walk, returning during his lunch break to see how he could help.

I was headed to the hardware store and then the grocery, so he came along, insisting he push the grocery cart and carry all my purchases. It was a little surreal in a, Driving Miss Daisy, kind of way – the old white haired woman with her hired man in tow.  

After lunch he returned to work, but not before advising me to close the gate and lock the windows.

I laughed. “What? You imagine somebody is going to break in? It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

He smiled, than fixed his gaze on mine. “Thank you for trusting me. You won’t be sorry.”  

And so the universe has brought me my first housemate, not the one I imagined and not the moneyed kind, but it appears we are rather a timely fit.

It was a simple request. “Could you move my truck from one side of the street to the other?” Monday is street cleaning day in Los Angeles and my son Clay was running out the door. “Sure,” I answered. “No problem.” 

Clay drives a gigantic 2008 Chrysler which he calls his people mover, but I think of it as his Mafia car. Even though it’s flashy and expensive, I can’t see it without thinking of rap music and Blade Runner. It’s a car Al Capone might drive. That car supports Clay’s big city image, but it’s the 1970 pick-up truck that brings home his country roots, his childhood and the depth and integrity of his spirit. 

Several years ago I considered getting a masters in creative writing as part of an extension program. I loved the idea of combining education with trips to California to see Clay and my granddaughter, Brit. That way I’d be a frequent visitor. Unfortunately it didn’t work out. Still, I remember the day I visited the campus and was waiting for Clay to pick me up. I was completely overwhelmed by the city, as usual, until I spotted that friendly old green truck rounding the corner with Clay behind the wheel. As soon as I saw it, something inside me began to relax and breathe again. 

Today Clay parked at a meter near Melrose, giving me money to plug the thing until the cleaning was over, but when the neighbors began leaving for work I decided to back the truck up early to save him fifty cents. God help me, my mind works that way. I had never actually driven the truck, mind you, just sat on the passenger side and admired it from afar. So I took my little nostalgic self across the street and climbed into the cab. 

I slammed the door as memories of less complicated days, open pastures and family came flooding back. I took a moment to soak that in before getting down to business. First the seat needed to come forward, but it wouldn’t move. It was stuck and my feet wouldn’t reach the pedals. Hum, what to do? I balanced on the edge using the steering wheel for stability, as I placed the key in the ignition. It took a while to find reverse, a really long while actually, since the steering column held no clues. But once I started going backwards I discovered the thing had no power steering and I was not about to muscle it around other cars. So, I put it in drive and pulled forward, toward an alley where I hoped to back up more easily.

Let me pause here to say, that if you think it’s simple pulling on a steering wheel with all your might while balancing on the edge of a seat because your feet don’t reach the pedals  - well, it’s not. Turning that wheel made me red in the face. It required ten hard yanks to budge an inch. I was sweating and holding up traffic both ways on Harper Avenue, as I strained and pulled and smiled to reassure busy commuters in fancy cars that they would be on their way as soon as possible. 

Once I reached the alley and traffic had cleared, I found reverse again (Thank you, God) and worked to back it around parked cars and into a meter free space. All this to save fifty freaking cents. And I had not even moved it to accommodate the street cleaners yet! 

I moored a good yard from the curb, which seemed just fine, since my expectations had gone from neat parallel parking to not abandoning it in the middle of the street. I went inside, took a bath to ease my muscles, dressed and drove my beloved-comfortable-steerable BMW to the grocery, returned, unpacked bags and sat on the couch pondering what to do about moving the truck. I went outside to contemplate my dilemma, as if starring at the old boy might help, when my answer came walking down the street – a big guy who looked to be in his thirties, with huge arms and plenty of strength. I was saved.

“Hey, how would you like to make some money?” I hollered. “Do you have a minute to help?”

To my surprise, he kept on walking. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry.” Then over his shoulder half a block away, “What did you have in mind?” 

“Look, I’ll give you ten bucks, and all you have to do is drive my son’s truck from one side of the street to the other. It’s that simple. It’s just that the truck has no power steering and I can’t do it myself.”

He didn’t even slow his step. “Sorry, I’m from New York City and never learned to drive.”

What a thug. All he had to do was sit next to me and let me use his arms. Oh well, I reasoned, I did it once. I can do it twice.

So I got in the truck again, only this time there were no cozy, I love you, vibes, it was more, “All right you mother ******. I need you to behave and help me out here. I am not going to wrench my back or block traffic again. This is going to work!” And amazingly it did. I got the beast parked on the right side of the road next to the driveway, even found a little shade, slammed the door and got out. Didn’t even lock it, hoping someone would steal the darned thing.

When my son came home I asked why he still kept that old truck, and what good was it without power steering and a seat that would not change positions?

“Mom, you would not believe how many offers I get to buy that truck. It’s a classic now, a real gem. Plus I need it to haul motorcycles. Sorry you had such a hard time. I never thought about that.”

I guessed I could like that truck again too, given a little time, but not quite as much as I did before.

I’m spending the week-end with Cooper, a gentle Buddha in a dog’s body, who’s been teaching me since I arrived. At first we were distant, studying one another from across the room. I was tired, having driven miles out of my way, convinced I knew better than the GPS. Like the saying goes, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But I did arrive, saw some beautiful countryside and stopped to buy a gift of flowers, which unfortunately had rotten water-logged stems that I hadn’t noticed.  

My afternoon client session had gone well, if I didn’t count the gardener mowing outside the window, my client yelling above a leaf blower, and an occasional ambulance blaring up Melrose Avenue. Not the quiet sessions conducted deep in the forest I’m used to, but she was helped and I enjoyed working again. Unfortunately, the recording of her session produced a wave file instead of an MP3 (the mysteries of electronics), and I could not figure out where the file landed (the mystery of my computer) so that necessitated an unscheduled stop to see Stan, the computer man. I waited while Stan explained what was happening (operator difficulties) which is a nice way of saying I’m electronically brain-dead, which I already knew. He fixed the problem, sent off  the client file and I bolted out the door, inching on to the Los Angeles freeway. Just another mercury retrograde day. 

You get the picture, so when I met Cooper I was less than congenial. The dog studied me, waiting for my emotional levels to move from explosive to simmer, then paraded his stuffed animals past my feet. I let him smell my hand, then stroked his head.

“So, where is your food, Buddy? Looks like we should start there.”

He promptly got up, led me through the kitchen and into a back bedroom, where I found both food and feeding dishes.

“Okay, that was a little scary. What other languages do you speak?”

Cooper gobbled down copious amounts of food while I made a bed on the couch, cursing the fact that I’m still homeless. My dream rental fell through on Thursday when I opened the door into a space so small I had to hold in my stomach to get inside. I was coaching myself away from open windows and kitchen knives when a friend connected me with Teryn, a local queen of real estate, who not only took me to lunch, promising to help me find a new place, but also opened her home while she and her husband Bart went away for the week-end. So that’s where I am, rooming with Cooper.  

I woke at six ready to walk and discovered Cooper felt the same. Teryn said he needed no leash, which was a tad unthinkable, but I took her word. I untangled night time hair and put on a jacket as Cooper stretched and waited. Before I opened the door, he nosed toward the poop bags lest I forget, then waddled out in front of me. The old gentleman shuffled down flights of brick steps looking back to see if I was following. He was also making it very clear just who was taking who for a walk! 

Trotting ahead, Cooper peed on a bush, then waited patiently, like a parent with a lingering child. When I got close enough to touch him, he took off again, up a side road and around a hedge. I began panting and wondering how distant a walk he had in mind, when he dropped last night’s dinner in the grass and turned around. ( I got to do the part of dog walking I don’t like. Enough said.) We returned home the same way, with Cooper serenely waiting every few yards until he nosed his way to the front door. 

After wolfing an abundant breakfast, he urged me to play tug of war by dropping a green stuffed monkey at my feet. I grabbed the other end expecting a little equal competition. But actually thinking I had an unfair advantage, you know, being human and all. Ha! Not so. Cooper had the strength of a bull. That dog pulled me across the room like I wasn’t even trying. Not one to settle for defeat, I challenged him again. And again he won. And again and again. This dog could pull a car.  

We both took a snooze, then had lunch in the yard, where I read Tapestry, Barbara Hollander’s memoir about life in Spain. Cooper munched an apple. We mellowed in afternoon sun, a gentle breeze lifting the romaine in my salad. When Cooper finished his fruit and wanted to play again but I refused.

“I’m not going to play with you.” I told him. “You never let me win, what fun is that?” 

Once inside Cooper burst with excitement, pushing against my side and stepping with a horse’s weight on my feet.  He loped to the bedroom, bringing out a brown monkey which he dropped until I agreed to pick it up. (The dog may be mellow but he’s extremely persistent.) Finally, I relented, grabbed the monkey and pulled hard, expecting to fly across the room again. But he surprised me. This time, he was gentle, pulled me a few feet, then feigned weakness, letting the toy tumble to the floor. The dog was letting me win!    

What kind of a dog does that? What kind of dog knows that? What kind of a dog takes me for a walk, shows me where his food is and the poop bags? Cooper, who in heaven’s name are you?

It was a doomed week from the start. Michelle Godfrey, an astrologer on facebook said, “There’s a big X in the sky right now, best to lay low.” I tucked that caution in my back pocket as I headed from Los Angeles to Phoenix to spend a week with friends, Suzanne and John, whose house is paradise. Being there is always a treat.

I arrived safely on Saturday night, eager to take a Sunday morning swim when I noticed something black floating in the pool. A large tarantula (the size grows with each remembering) was suspended in the water inches from my foot. I called Suzanne, who assured me it was dead, as she fished it out with a rake, plopping it in the stones three short feet away. But once his little tarantula feet hit dry land, he shook off the water and began moving around. That was enough for me. I no longer wanted a swim, was definitely not going in the pool and decided that the backyard was off limits as well.

As it happened, that same afternoon was the twenty-first birthday celebration of John’s youngest daughter, so the backyard was overrun with splashing grandchildren, drink-carrying adults and a very cautious me watching from the door. When I did step out I was served up like an imported delicacy to mosquitoes, who had trouble penetrating the tougher skinned locals. John assured me there were mosquitoes, but they did not bite, this assertion came as I was being bored into like a piece of swiss cheese, welts rising like a sudden case of chicken pox.

That evening I passed the hot tub and noticed a light blue salamander belly up on the bottom. Confronted with two dismal omens, I went to the internet for definition. The tarantula said something about bringing past and present together but the meaning that stood out said simply, dangerous and sinister.

The next day I decided to “man-up” and get in the pool anyway. Suzanne and I were floating when John came out of the house in tears. His 29 year old daughter had been fighting cancer for the past year and the disease had gone into her spine. She was in the ER, in the terminal stage of cancer. The rest of that day was spent in unreal turmoil as phone calls poured in, decisions were pondered and grief showed in everyone’s eyes. Three little boys ages 6, 5 and 3 would be left behind.

Tuesday afternoon opened a window for me to do a soul reading for Suzanne but not before an afternoon nap. The blazing sun, the trip over and family events were taking an energetic toll. Everyone else simply plied themselves with coffee but my body was too sensitive for caffeine, so I searched the freezer for a sweet that might give me energy. There was plenty of ice cream but that didn’t appeal so I dug and dug until I reached the bottom of the drawer. Then I spotted it, a Christmas tin, something I assumed had been stored and forgotten. I pried the top off and found cookies, fudge, brownies and some mystery sweets in silver foil. I took the fudge, ate it, replaced the tin and settled down for a short nap.

When Suzanne came out, we spread cards on the table and I began to read. I was nearly finished when I noticed my hands becoming clumsy, words spilling in the wrong direction and my mind lifting dangerously away from reality. I sprang from the sofa alarmed, couldn’t finish the reading, then burst through french doors, pacing next to the pool. Suzanne followed. “I’m sorry, I can’t finish. Something is wrong with me,” I said, “terribly, terribly wrong.” I feared I was having a stroke or psychotic break.

Suzanne was by my side every minute, inquiring and trying to comfort me, but there was no comfort. I was clearly out of my mind and knew it. Did I get caught in another reality? Was I being transported to another dimension? Would I ever be normal again? Would I be able to get my mind back, my life?

“Karen, if you were anyone else I’d take you to the emergency room but I know you wouldn’t go. What do you want me to do?” I sat with my feet in the pool staring into space. I thought of going in, but another part of me warned against it. You are not yourself; you may not come out again. “I don’t know what to do,” I told her. “Something in me has snapped.”

Suzanne put her arm around my shoulder and began talking about my future, the wonderful new life opening before me, my beauty, my spirit, every good and positive thing she could think of. She worked to weave a net with her words, a web of safety for me to rest in, while my mind raced in this unknown landscape. When she stopped, I knew I needed to be on the earth, to let earth energy hold me, but where? This was not the grassy Oregon countryside I knew; this was a yard of cactus, brick, palm trees, prickly aloe and desert rock.

I walked toward a gravel clearing as something exploded inside me, something fierce, an explosion that propelled me to my knees. I reached for white border stones, placed them on my heart and power center, and willed them to bring my energetic field and mind back to earth.

Suzanne talked of food poisoning, but I remembered nothing out of the ordinary. I feared my spiritual work had snapped the gossamer thread that kept me tethered to this place and decided I needed someone with mastery to bring me back. Suzanne found my phone book and called Lexi Parrott and Rebecca Singer, the only healers I knew capable of helping in those dimensions. She left phone messages as another violent wave hit my body. Then I remembered the fudge.

“Oh my God Karen, That was medical marijuana, very potent, made into a kind of butter and then confections. It’s been down there for two years. We keep it for my mom who has M.S.

This did not feel like my days of marijuana, this felt like rat poison, but there was comfort in understanding the break with reality.

John came outside eager to help but all I could think of was asking him to shovel vomit away from my face, since moving was out of the question. Both ends of me were busy expelling, and no one wanted to address what was happening ‘below.’

I opened my eyes into searing light and saw John’s face looking at me through the branches of an orange tree, his ever present white brimmed hat casting shadows across his face. I smiled up at him, having a fantasy of John showing a perspective client his tile work with me sprawled across the walkway, my face planted in the dirt, puddles of liquid flowing in each direction, looking like road kill on a heavily traveled thoroughfare. “And this,” he would explain. as they carefully stepped over me, “is our houseguest. Apparently a little sensitive to food.”

I thought of the Buddhist tenet. Do not take what is not given, and how often I’d played fast and loose with that one, and how I would not be in this mess if I had inquired, instead of taken. But Suzanne did not agree. “Oh darlin’,” she said in her southern comfort way, “You know you are welcome to anything we have.”

When John returned to the house I asked Suzanne to clean up the ‘other end’ of me, and bless her heart she did. All the time gagging and explaining why she could never be a nurse and how this whole thing explained the shit dreams she’d been having – which took our friendship to a whole new level, as you can well imagine!

When she’d finished I found the strength to make it inside to the bathroom, where I expelled for a few more hours. Too weak to remove my dress, I asked her to get scissors and cut it off.

Lexi called at the end of my purging, six hours later, and thankfully at a time when I was able to speak in complete sentences. Suzanne placed cushions on the bathroom floor and I settling down for the night, while Lexi and I talked and laughed. She began guiding me through a healing session. “Where ever you are,” she said, “is becoming sacred space.” I could not stop laughing. I looked up at the white porcelain of the toilet bowl, the tub and the war zone of the bathroom floor. Damn, I thought, if I can make this sacred space, I can make anything sacred space!

Rebecca called when Lexi hung up, offering to get on a plane to come help, but I couldn’t call back until the following day, couldn’t figure out how to make the phone work, so I listened to her message, feeling blessed to have loyal friends.

I spent two days in bed recovering my strength, while the household swirled with activity around the news of John’s daughter. The house was awash with visitors, many of their moods lightened by the story of my misadventures into the freezer drawer.

The morning I left, I swam in the pool, tentatively peering around the corner beneath the grapefruit tree to visit the scene of the crime. I was delighted and surprised to see that John had placed branches from a tree in the dirt where I had fallen and a pile of stones to heal the violence that had taken place. It felt like an apt memorial for a strange and perilous visit. 

I had a dream on Friday and found my house on Sunday. Here is how it went.

In the first part of my dream I met a man who showed me a house with a room for rent. He was kind and I thought I could live there, although it was not entirely comfortable. It was night and I could smell the sea at a distance. Then he took me through a dark tunnel and into another house. This one was empty and I knew for sure I wanted to live there. The man told me there was no electricity in the house, but I didn’t care. There were six cherubs that played in the room with me. They had short curly white hair and I held them on my lap and against my heart. Then I woke up. 

On Saturday I drove to Ojai and looked at a room offered for rent by a gifted artist. I liked the woman and could have lived there, but in the end, was uncomfortable with the idea of living in another person’s house. I had arranged to see a studio, but it could not be viewed until the next day, so I needed to stay overnight. (The dark tunnel that led to the second house.)

When I arrived and saw the grounds and the studio, I knew I had found my home. The landlady told me there was no stove in the unit, only a microwave, (There is no electricity) but I didn’t care. I rented it anyway.  It’s a start, a classy place, even through its small.  

There is a sculpture garden in the back with small figures cast in white marble (my cherubs) and is only eight miles from the sea. I can not move in until September first, but have officially landed. Insert the Halleluiah Chorus here!  

Now that the house is established, I am waking with visions for my work, much needed creative ideas about putting more joy into the experience and less sense of duty. So there you go. I found my place – or was led to it. Things are happening here, good things, which I thought I’d better share right away, since my last post was a tad raw. Thanks to all of you who have given me encouragement through this trying time. It means a lot.

I’m homeless. Not in a cardboard sign, sleep on the street kind of way, but still homeless. Once a week I search the new rental listings printed in miniscule type on both sides of a real estate flier, but Southern California listings give me pause. The rentals are three times what I paid in Oregon.I have not worked in a month and don’t know when I will again. Still, I trudge forward knowing that this passage is not just an act of determination and will, but also a deeply felt destiny.

My son Clay and his lady Khrystyne have taken me in, so shelter and comfort are provided. But I have already stayed too long, putting both feet in the center of their lives, when all I intended was to touch down lightly.

Each day I struggle to stay positive and upbeat, but often I am immobilized by fear – the reality of my situation landing hard and raw on the uncertain landscape of my heart. At these times, demons spring from the shadows to rage and throw fireballs of negative thoughts across my weakness.

“You have no home,” they tell me. “You belong no where. You are not working. Nobody knows you. How will you survive? Where is your life partner? Why have you always been such a solo act, so extremely independent and alone? Everyone else your age is settled, yet you are untethered.”

These thoughts find me between wake and sleep, lodging my spirit in unreality, but I refuse to let them own me. They are the underbelly of my experience, feelings that catch me when I am fragile and unguarded. Some people soothe themselves through such times with alcohol, sex or drugs, but my medicine has always been movies, lots of wonderful imaginings to distract and calm a troubled mind.

Yet most of the time I feel excited, strong, brave and resolute. I like the person I am becoming because she has thrown off the stagnation of an unworthy life and is open – wide open to embracing new people, places, ideas and possibilities. Other’s like this new me also, but what’s more important is that I like her.

I can make myself crazy if I think of the years I wasted being crippled to joy, but I don’t want to. Instead, I pull myself up each day and make the phone calls and check the rental lists and connect with people I have never met, with the idea of enlisting them in my search and building future friendships.

Yep! This may be one of the most difficult things I’ve done – cutting away a 40 year history – and it is going much much slower than I had hoped, but I am doing it, one breath at a time, one step at a time.

And any day now, I will land and root, find my people, my clients and my teachers. Maybe even become prosperous and travel with a companion who can open my world a little wider. Maybe I’ll learn to splash paint on a canvas, laugh until my belly hurts and love from a deeper, more whole place in myself.

Strawberry pie is not good for my body. When I eat it, each piece stays in my belly like a slowly inflating balloon. My head begins to ache and discipline flies out the window. I know I’ve crossed a food line and will pay for it later, but later is… well… later.

My mouth, however, doesn’t know any of this. My mouth thinks that strawberry pie has been sent for me personally, directly from the Gods, as a reward for salads eaten and vitamins popped. And I’m not talking just any strawberry pie, mind you. I’m talking my strawberry pies, the kind with homemade crust and yards of freshly whipped cream.  

It was Friday morning. Dicksie and Joe were coming to visit in Los Angeles on their way back to Arizona, and I wanted to treat them right, so I got out the last large piece of my special pie and traced a line down the center. There, I thought, those pieces are perfectly even. They will love them. Then, I made the grave mistake of licking a small dollop of whipping cream from the knife, a tragic error for which I most humbly apologize.  

The thinking of my evil twin went like this: 

Oh, so good. One more little taste won’t hurt, but this time I need some berries.

Yes, delicious.

Hum, maybe I’d better divide them again into smaller pieces, so I can slice off an edge on each side for myself. They’ll never know. Okay, that works, but the line is still not equal. I’ll need to even it up by having just a little bit more from each piece. Yep, yep, that looks better.

You know, the French serve extremely small portions and supplement with sprigs of mint or drizzled chocolate sauce.

Actually, the smaller the size, the more gourmet it looks. What a great idea.

I’ll keep eating from both pieces until they are fashionably petite. Yes.

Really, I wonder if Joe even likes strawberry pie. He might hate it. I never asked. And I seem to remember something about Dicksie watching her figure. Maybe pie would not be such a good idea after all. Perhaps its best not to mention I made it. That would be the wise road.

I’ll just wash the pie plate. But, I certainly can’t return two such tiny pieces to the refrigerator. That would be foolish, better just finish them up.  

And so my dear friends, whom I do love, came to visit. And we went out to eat and I kept my gluttonous secret.

I managed to go for 65 years without pumping my own gas, and now, wouldn’t you know it, my decision to move to California has pulled me out of my car and my comfort zone. I’ve filled up my tank six times and still don’t have it right, but each time I get better.

Last night I watched a guy hop out out of his car, push the nozzle in the tank and walk away to wash his windshield, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I was impressed, since my machine had already stopped three times. Once, because I didn’t shove the nozzle in far enough. Twice, because I tried to use the silver clip hidden in the handle to hold the lever up – and failed. And a third time, because I got distracted by the show-off guy and tried to do the same. I envied his wife sitting idly in the passenger seat examining her nails. One should never underestimate the gifts that come with relationship. 

The other thing I’m getting used to is a GPS, which came without an instruction manual of ANY kind, like a person should just know how to use it because of genetics, gender, or maybe age. Isabella, who was 11 years old at the time, gave me a quick lesson before I left Oregon. (She flies her dad’s airplane and is used to navigation systems.)  But she did not have the hang of allowing me to do it myself. Instead, she ran through the buttons quicker than a teller at the grocery. “See Ma? You just go here, here, here and here, and when you’re done, you push this.”

The GPS and the gas pump have been colossal challenges, with me tackling strangers to beg assistance. But when I reached Los Angeles, a one on one lesson from Clay, my son, helped tremendously. “You can always play the old lady card, if you get into trouble Mom.”

My biggest breakthrough with the GPS came when a bartender showed me a symbol that looks like a tiny bed in the lower right hand corner and announced it was the space bar. Ha! What a difference a space makes. In my defense, I will say that the clerk at the Morro Bay B&B could not find the space bar either. Anyway, the GPS and I have been doing very well – except for yesterday, when the hot California sun melted the glue that held it on the dash and dumped it in my lap.

Like my computer, I’m sure I’m only using one fourth of its capacity and that it has little GPS nighttime imaginings of belonging to someone who is worthy of it. But I am thrilled. After the initial shock of having a moving screen on my dash and another voice in the car, I have grown dependent, even delighted to be safely guided through the chaos of southern California traffic.

I still live in avoidance of gas station trauma and freeway madness but am adapting and getting better every day.

It was late, almost midnight. Mark and I had performed two evening shows and neglected to book a hotel room. “Don’t worry,” a young patron said. “Here is a key to my place. Save your money and stay there. I’ll be gone a few days, so slip the key under the mat when you leave.” We’d been touring for a year and I was delighted by the idea of staying in a home instead of a hotel. But my visions of warmth and welcome quickly faded when his key opened into a bachelor pad full of clutter, dirty dishes, soiled rugs and a hungry neglected cat. The bedroom was dark and fearful. “What shall we do?” I asked. “It’s too late to find another place.” Mark shook his head, “Nothing to do but crash here.”   

To say that I am sensitive to space and energy is a monumental understatement, so this was like dropping into the jaws of hell. I went to the van, found a packing blanket and placed it in the center of the living room, then sliced lilacs branches from a bush near the entry, making a circular mound around the blanket. With resignation and anger, I lowered myself onto the hard surface, willing nature and beauty to transport me into protected sleep. The scent and sight of the flowers helped but could not prevent absorption of the indwelling essence of the owner. 

That was an extreme case but unfortunately not unusual, since staying overnight anywhere other than home, can have dire consequences. A year of hotels and restaurant food left me ill and unable to continue. I had too many evenings sleeping in my car like a pretzel, rather than submerged in the unwelcome energies left in hotel rooms, where sheets are changed and tended but rooms are seldom aired or cleared. I have only to touch the bed spread or walk on the rug in bare feet to feel the energy of all who have passed before. Such heavily used rooms are an energetic Chernobyl for an empath or energetically sensitive person. 

The Oceanside Inn has been my only vacation place for decades, because the owner leaves the windows open between renters, allowing strong ocean air to whirl and spin-clean the space to pristine levels of purity. When forced to stay in difficult lodging, I have tried sage and candles, chanting and intention, which all help but can not rid the space of left over dreams. When I am in these environments, I slip into another’s dream field and wake unrested and worn down. Being in someone else’s dream field is like sleeping in a scratchy shirt, while experiencing the heaviness of their emotions, hopes and unfelt pain. It is tolerable with a life partner, but extremely unsettling with an absent stranger. 

The only time this trait has been remotely useful was when I accompanied my partner Thom to a therapy session and he could not remember the content of his last dream, so I did it for him. It took no effort to recall the whole thing, since I had been in his dream field. In this way my retelling helped him remember and gain understanding from the content. In case you hadn’t already guessed, having a live in partner can be difficult for an empathic person. For example, when Thom got a toothache, I was taking aspirin for the pain without understanding the pain was his. 

Today I’m traveling again so the awareness of this problem has returned, otherwise, I conveniently forget. My room at the Land of Medicine Buddha Retreat Center was clean and lovingly tended so the unseen effects were minimal, but still there was disrupted sleep and little rest. The lingering dream voice that remained in my room had a loud masculine quality, not at all like my own. This voice was bold and without refinement, as if stomping through a meadow in uncaring boots.

Pondering this puzzle makes me think of Collette, a student I met teaching an Intuitive Wisdom class at Marylhurt University.  “You know, Karen,” she said, “when I first had a session with you I thought it would be so wonderful to be as open and knowing as you are. I wanted to have the skills you had, but now that we have finished the class, I am grateful that I do not, because I see and understand that yours in not an easy road and that every gift comes with a price.”

My room has a gold framed photo of the Wish Fulfilling Healing Buddha sitting above the desk. I smile up at it, extending arthritic fingers. “Okay, here you go Buddha Buddy, give it your best shot.”  

I booked three days at The Land of Medicine Buddha Retreat Center in Soquel California. The LMB, as it’s called is an oasis of conscious people, organic food – lovingly prepared, Tibetan teachers and kind actions. It is also a hospice care facility and day school for children.  

Yesterday was a day for self-indulgence, an attempt to repay my body for the herculean effort I demanded while moving, lifting, packing, not sleeping, having primal scream anxiety about pulling up Portland roots, seeing too many clients and driving twelve hours from Hillsboro to Santa Cruz. My body forgives me now, but it took a two hour massage, acupuncture treatment, thirty laps in the pool, a sunbath, meditation and a relaxation tape. That’s how much I owed! 

I will stay in Los Angeles with my son this week-end, then go to San Diego where I’ll have a room in a house of musicians, with no idea where I will find a home of my own. I only knew that I could not find the place I wanted sitting in a little house in the forest in Oregon, so off I went, like the fool card in the tarot, carrying few belongings and lots of trust and faith. 

Feelings of liberation washed over me as I drove away from Oregon – a sense of celebration, like a prisoner released after a forty year sentence. Vast open landscape, mountains, and a horizon full of possibility brought elation, as music by The Supremes danced in my ears. I found myself smiling as feelings of deliverance burst through my senses. Sun-warmed shoulders through an open roof anchored my gratitude. 

So why did I stay so long? I was paralyzed by love. Love of friends, home, clients and my daughter, but most of all by Isabella, my heart. Her entrance into my world twelve short years ago froze my attention, making me determined to be fully present for each breath of her young life. But now I’ve left. I’ve done it and it’s not because I love them any less, it’s that my body and spirit were rapidly crumbling in an environment I had outgrown long ago. 

These thoughts sit gently on my mind as I look into a redwood forest, a sanctuary that grows green and lush outside my window. The grounds have meandering paths, prayer wheels, bamboo chimes, a wish fulfilling temple and open meadows, but there is a warning to beware of mountain lions. If you see one, the pamphlet in the guest house reads, pull your jacket up over your head and try to look bigger than you are. Then they won’t hurt you.

That won’t be hard for me now, because I feel lots bigger and more myself than I’ve ever been.

 

We each had a horse growing up but it was not a pet, it was transportation. With five kids and a full time business, my folks were not about to transport each of us around. If we wanted to go somewhere, we hopped on our horse and disappeared. Cars in those days were approached the same way. They were something to hop on, but not necessarily in.

I used to wait for my uncle as he turned the corner on his way home from work. He never slowed as I raced his car, leaping at top speed on the running board. We visited and smiled through the open window traveling the last mile together, while I sucked in dust and the smell of tobacco from his cherry wood pipe. On warm summer evenings, we took my parent’s car down country roads with my brothers, sisters and friends lounging across the hood and trunk, hands behind our heads like a pillow, starring into open sky and tree branches. A license didn’t matter, we were in the middle of nowhere. Most of us learned to drive sitting on pillows so we could see over the steering wheel.

When my cousin Rip came home from the Navy, he built himself a car out of old parts. It was his Merry Oldsmobile, held together with bailing wire. It had no roof and no floor at all, so passengers had to hold their feet up when he drove. I used to love watching the road ribbon by underneath us.

Then in boarding school there was the unforgettable Monsieur Le Gurre, our French Instructor straight from Paris. When his Citroen finally arrived in the rolling hills of Vermont, he took our entire class outside to admire it. “Come, come, I will show you,” he said in barely understandable English. “I will drive you all!”  Twenty students piled on the hood, the roof and what little trunk there was. The rest stood on the bumper, overflowed the backseat, the front and hung from the windows. It was a sight one does not quickly forget. Unfortunately, the headmaster was watching and quickly dismissed Monsieur Le Gurre from future duties, but not before a spin around town.

As a young mother, I thought nothing of putting my kids in the boot of the car, their feet dangling over the bumper, tree branches propped inside to hold the trunk open. They sat together on a blanket and had a good old time watching the woods go by. I’m sure they sucked down plenty of exhaust, but didn’t seem the worse for it. I remember one couple waving scolding fingers as they passed, but I paid them no mind. What better time could a kid have?

Now, when we near the road to my house and my granddaughter wants to stand on the passenger seat, her upper body shooting up through the sunroof, hair flying in the wind and arms outstretched, I say, go for it! A big smile spreads across her face, and I know in that moment that she feels alive and engaged with life, not strapped in and confined.

Watching her embrace the wind reminds me of a couple I counseled a few years ago, who denied their parents access to their children because the parents took them around the block without seatbelts on. “They were irresponsible and can’t be trusted with our children.” I sigh, knowing that their parents, like myself are products of another era.

You wanna keep going down the road of life? We need to make sure you’re not giving off too many toxic fumes or polluting the air around you. To keep living and breathing, you’ll need to show up at DEQ for the Soul. 

Yep, that’s what I want to invent, a compulsory process for purifying the spirit, which would begin at ten years of age and continue every ten years thereafter - an inescapable commitment for everyone drawing breath. 

Let’s send make-believe Margaret through first to give us a peek at the process:  

Margaret has been doing this for awhile, so she is not at all nervous, in fact she’s been counting the days since her purification notice arrived in the mail. She eagerly visits the center, stepping into a white cloud-like substance, which provides a feeling of deep calm and homecoming, a sense of being completely and utterly safe. She begins to breathe into her belly and with each breath becomes more and more relaxed. There is a full length mirror on the wall, where she can watch all negative experiences and memories detach, like shingles lifting from an old roof in the wind. All pain, abuse, damage, suffering and darkness stored in her body are raised, cleansed and returned to the world as light. All memory of anguish erased. 

When extraction is complete, Margaret walks away from the center in bare feet, restoring and renewing her place on the earth and her belief in the sacredness of all life. Healing waters wait beyond, the surface shimmering like diamonds, each drop of light, a piece of her soul essence that has been hunted, harvested and brought back from early trauma, to be reunited as love and life force. As she tiptoes into the water, releasing her body to float on the surface, the fullness of her spirit moves back through the pores of her skin and into the core of her being. When she once again feels completely in love with life and all that is, her papers are stamped and she is free to return to the world for another ten year cycle. 

What a different place this world would be if we could manage such a simple thing.

Intermission

The muse has gone on holiday, so I’ll stop writing the novel for awhile.

I’m thinking it could be a month or even two.

Thank you for reading, and check back when you can.

The days are short and cold, dragging on in the claustrophobic ways that winter days do.

I am not sure what to do with myself when left alone for so long. Marko goes into Halstead to mend shoes and repair cane chairs each morning, spending afternoons at the White Hart Inn with a glass of ale and lively conversation. He returns home in an uplifted mood, his booming laugh and eager accordion music a salve for my heart.

Luca leaves at dawn to sharpen saws and help the granary keeper unload cargo from the ships coming up the River Colne. He comes home tired, smelling of barley and wheat, but rarely complains. He is determined to save money for his marriage to Tarnia, beaming whenever he mentions her name.

Even Angelina leaves each morning to sell the roses and poppies she’s fashioned from scrapes of velvet. She shivers outside Saint Andrews in a too thin coat, offering her goods to the ladies of the parish, gold colored jewelry woven in her long black hair.

When they return, I hear rosy-cheeked stories about Avon and Mila amusing themselves by throwing snowballs and racing between headstones in the rear of the church. Angelina is frugal, but often stops at the tobacconist to buy a treat for Marko and the confectioners for candies at weeks end.

My offering is a rich meaty stew that wafts from the stove, and the willingness of my hands to sew what I can for the next day’s sale. We have all agreed that I hide from view, fearing misunderstandings between their people and mine.

Once or twice a week I visit Matruska (mostly from boredom) who has taught me how to dye wool in large vats of rainbow colored hues made from plants, leaves, roots and berries. She is at ease in my company and generous with her wisdom, but I do not embrace her in the same way. I worry that too much of her company might catapult me into other realms from which I can not return, my current tether to life feeling gossamer at best. I dare not tug upon it, lest it break all together.

Instead, I spend day after day alone in my own company, often strolling over the hillside with the aid of my blackthorn stick. Time feels expansive and lazy during these walks, like the emptiness of it could go on forever. This unfamiliar spaciousness opens my spirit to all that I see and greet, be it tree, stone or wind. A sense of limitless time affords a kind of delicate joining with all that surrounds me.

When I forget myself I become the breeze, the snowflake and the melting ice on the pond, but when I inhabit my body there is a restless discomfort difficult to describe. It is like my spirit is in the wrong place or I’m wearing a shoe that belongs to another or I’m holding something in my hand that repels and yet I can not put it down. I feel completely at home and I don’t feel at home at all. Worse yet, my mind has neither answer nor comfort for such a dilemma. I simply endure, continue my midnight rituals and hope one day it will pass.

Soon, I tell myself, the hedgerows will be fragrant with honeysuckle and I’ll be that much closer to finding my way home. Until then I will continue to pen my letters and offer them to the night, trying not to expect too much nor yield to disappointment, since I’ve had no other contact since the revealing of his name.

Some nights, as I read my letter, I can feel my husband’s presence, as if he stands near my shoulder. But lately it’s as if I read to myself alone, his spirit being occupied elsewhere. At these times, a great anxiety builds in my chest making it difficult to breath, and I speak even louder, desperate that he hear me.

“Jonathon dear, please do not forget or abandon me, for hope of finding you is all that I have.”

Angelina waits up for me, offering oat cakes and fermented whey, relishing a woman’s time without men or children. I bound up the steps, busting with zeal, anxious to tell her of the night’s discoveries.

“I know his name, my husband’s name.  It is John, Jonathon. He came to me in a vision that was not a vision but a visit. I saw him for a fleeting moment standing before me and I remembered. I am beginning to remember!”

Angelina pulls me into her arms in the sisterly embrace I’ve come to know so well, and I can smell her goodness and strength.

“My senses have changed,” I tell her, my hair wild and knotted from the wind.

She listens to my tale, smiling.

“Soon you will remember everything, and find your way home, and I will be happy for you. And I will be distressed to lose my sister and friend. Life is pushing you forward with its own hand. It seems you have little choice. Each day you become a woman of greater power, like Matruska.”

The thought of it alarms me. “I will never be like Matruska – an old woman living alone in the woods? I do not want that life. That is not mine to have. I do not want visions. I want to depend on things being predictable.”

The room feels deliciously warm as I remove my boots and hang up my coat.

Angelina laughs. “Life is not predictable. Your accident and training have opened something in you, something the rest of us do not have, the gift of seeing, and once opened it does not go away.”

“But,” I protest. “I will never sit by midnight fires again or hold the kestrel feather. Once I am home I want to put this all behind me.”

She sips the fermented whey, slowly, measuring her words. “Who you have become will not leave, Maya, but can serve you in ways you can not yet imagine. These gifts are an embodiment of the divine mystery, allowing you to look behind the mask of appearance to see things as they really are. They allow you to see to the heart and to bring influence into being that can inform your life.”

I remove the rest of my winter clothes, slipping a soft yellow tunic over my head, the warmth and weight of it welcome against my skin.

 “You have been like an instrument out of tune,” she continues, “each day moving closer to your truest tone. You will find, as I do, that your new sound has many variations and rich hues. Do not be eager to dismiss it.”

Angelina leans against one wall of the caravan, smelling of honey and cabbages, and I against the other, a blanket thrown across our legs.

“And what of you, Angelina? What will you do when I find my way home?”

“I will do as I have always done, serve my children and my family. I will spend the morning cleaning, drawing water, building fires, finding herbs and preparing food. I will look at the sky to see what the clouds look like, listen to the voice of the wind, the songs of the birds and count how many trees have lost their leaves. If we are near a town, I will sell my dried flowers or work in the hop fields, and in the evenings there will be stories and songs. But through it all, I will think of you and the joy you have brought into our lives, secretly wishing that you had been free, able to stay and marry my Luca.”

We laugh from our bellies. Angelina loves Tarnia but finds her blistering temperament and controlling ways as difficult as I do.

The web of sleep pulls at us as Angelina gets up to leave. “Rhiannon is a great queen, a Goddess from Wales often appearing in the night as a white horse or stag. She is a muse standing between the gates of death and rebirth. She will guide you home and feed your creative spirit, if you ask.”

My creative spirit. My thoughts turn to painting and then to Edwin as I drift off to sleep, wondering how his betrayal will find its way into my life.

It is a bitter January. The forest is dense, a black frost in the hills, but I have committed to keeping a midnight vigil. Matruska’s acknowledgment of my husband has awakened a longing in me and a knowing that I can reach his spirit. She has given me instructions, and a gift of the falcon’s feather in its ornate box.

My spot is just ahead, a small circle of stones in a clearing. A lone hazelnut tree at the crest of the hill marks the location, its frozen branches shining like jewels to light my way.

Snow begins to fall as I approach, a few flakes at first, then wind-driven eddies swirling around my boots. The air is bright and cold as I raise my chin to a black sky, allowing each flake to fall softly and gently against my face, like heavenly kisses.

“Hello, me dear,” I say aloud. “I am back.”

I have made this pilgrimage every night since November and will continue to make it until spring.

I kneel, reaching into my bag for brushwood, matches and an oil cloth to sit on, my open fingered gloves allowing freedom.  The wind blows against my hand as I shelter a match, bringing brushwood to life, then lift the latch on the wooden box. The falcon feather and plant dyes have allowed me to pen correspondence to my husband, careful calligraphied words, which seem to waltz across the page of their own accord. They are to be read and burned at midnight, when the portal between worlds is most open.

 My stockings are thick and warm but can not repel the icy draft. I shake from cold, moving closer to the fire, as I bring the feather to my lips, then slide it through an opening in my coat and beneath my bodice to rest against my heart. My movements are patterned, each learned act an offering of desire. I position myself, arms extended to the sky, ready to begin.

 “Spirit of the Falcon, take the words of my heart, born of your winged body, to the heart of my husband, that he may know that I live and seek him. Deliver my message each night as he sleeps, renewing our love and instilling hope in his dreams.”

My letter is tucked beneath a square of wool at the bottom of the box, the paper fragile against the night. I kneel to retrieve it, ready to offer my words to the fire, when a noise pulls my attention – a rustling of bushes, followed by the icy sounds of crunched undergrowth. Something is near, coming closer. I am immobile, waiting, as a stag steps from the woods, his velvet antlers raised. We are both still, looking at one another through falling snow, his breath making snorts of fog near his nose. I close my eyes and when I open them again, everything seems bigger and cleaner, as if I can suddenly see with more clarity. My body begins to tremble, as a familiar dizziness blurs my vision, and the land swirls disturbingly around me.

When I look again, the face of the stag transforms into that of a strong intelligent man, the pelt of the deer becoming chestnut hair. In a flash he steps toward me, fully human in tweed jacket, a disoriented, lost gaze in his eyes. I see into his world for just a moment and he into mine. He stands alone on a bitter night, nursing grief and twisting a diamond wedding ring in his hand. He calls a name I can not hear, as the image fades.

 Snow falls on silence. “John,” I say aloud. “Jonathon?”

Matruska covers my hand with her own, an aloof November moon beaming full and indifferent.

“Let me see what I can bring forth,” she says, closing her eyes.

Time passes slowly as I wait, beginning to chill from the night. Her face looks pained and her brow furrowed as she speaks.

 “You have a dark anguish of absence, having to do with a child, a son. He is waiting, wanting to come into your life but can not come through the man you knew as your husband. It is not possible.”

“So,” I interrupt. “I do have a husband! You can see him?”  My heart throbs with excitement, an elation I have not felt.

Matruska is slow to continue as if pulling information from the stars that are just now coming out.

“I see the shadow of a man alone who grieves from the bottom of his soul, believing you are dead. He is lost now, moving from place to place without purpose.”

“Please,” I beg, grasping her hand. “What else can you see?”

Matruska quiets herself again, waiting for images.

“I see another man, a traveller, who enters your body to bring forth a son, then walks away, which is as it should be.”

I am put off by her suggestion, finding it crude and impossible.

“Do you not comprehend? I seek my husband. What can I do to find my husband? Please use your sight for that. If I am married surely our love would flow into one another to create a child. How can you suggest I leave his bed?”

Matruska’s mood darkens. “Let me become your ally, Maya. You must calm yourself and listen with an open spirit. Seeing into the future, into someone’s heart and mind requires being truthful. What is seen may not be to your liking, but must be said. Please, child, I can only help if you allow me to.”

I am heated and tense. “Then help!”

“There is no leaving what is not there,” she challenges, referring to my husband’s bed. Now! Listen to me carefully. On the first day of May there is purification on the mountains and hillsides. Cattle will be driven between bonfires to bring us luck. At that time the triple Goddess will be near the earth; maiden, mother, crone. It is her medicine you need to mend what is broken, until then you must wait. Spring and Beltane will bring clarity and gifts.

I get up, wrapping my shawl around me, wishing for Angelina and Marko to take me away. Being with this woman is suddenly too much. I feel exhausted, too opened and much too seen.

As I make my way back to the house, there is a stirring deep within, another remembering making me dizzy. I drop to the earth, shaken, holding back tears, feeling the touch of Matruska’s hand upon my shoulder.

“Forceful energies are moving through you, Maya. Do not try to stop them.”

I am angry. “It’s too much,” I protest. “I want them to stop!”

The face of a young boy enters my vision as I stagger to my feet. It is a face I know, a face from a dream, his body glowing, eyes overflowing with light. I look at him, finding myself in his eyes.

“Mother,” he whispers, before the image fades, and I know I must do it. I must give him life, whatever the cost.

I lay on a narrow bed in a darkened corner of Matruska’s house, the flicker from a single candle our only light.

“Rest Maya,” she tells me, “and breathe into your belly, while I gather friends from unseen places.”

I watch from the corner of my eye, a little nervous, not knowing what she means, as Matruska picks up a large spiral shell.

“Water spirits,” she calls, as if coaxing them from their fluid depths. “Come!” The sound of the shell is horn-like and haunting, the reverberation filling the room. She stands in squirrel skin slippers, her sapphire blue eyes closed under white lashes. After a moment she places the shell in the west near a bowl of scented water. 

Matruska’s eyes reflect flames as she faces the south, holding a handmade torch in the embers until it blazes into life. “Fire spirits, come!” She says, waving the torch around the room, as if burning away an unseen darkness that lives near my essence. When she’s finished she flings the remaining bundle into the fire.

A cold winter breeze blows her long white hair as she faces east, throwing open a window. “Wind spirits, come!” She commands, then walks with a determined gait toward a box perched on a shelf above the hearth, retrieving a single feather from a kestrel falcon. It is bound in leather and decorated with small pieces of bone. Matruska waves it over the length of my bed, securing it over my heart with a piece of jasper.  

“Earth spirits, come!” She continues, taking clay from a bucket and smearing it on my forehead, hands and feet. “This is your daughter, Maya, who needs your help. Now is the time to be with her.”

 Matruska stands in silence feeling the difference in the room. Even I can sense the power of it and the shift in my body. Gooseflesh rises all over me, like little fingers of truth, as I acknowledge that we are no longer alone.

“Breathe from your belly,” she tells me, going to the sink to wash her hands.  “Your answers are there.”

She retrieves a steaming black rag from a pot on the stove, placing the warm cloth over my eyes.  “Rest,” she laughs, reaching for a lute.

“The spirits love poetry and music. We must appease them before they will help.”

The timbre of the music is at once resonant and piercing, then mellow and breathy, the effect lulling me to a quieter inner place. 

I wait and breathe, listening to the lute and her words of instruction, lingering in darkness between worlds until my vision begins to alter.  To my surprise, there is an opening, an image appearing, as if immerging from a fog.

“What do you see?” she asks. “Something has come.”

“Yes,” I answer. But speaking is a great effort. I am in one world and she asks me to report to another, I am not sure I can do both. I reenter the scene, endeavoring to share  the vision.

“I feel a man’s arms around my waist. He holds me close. There is mystery and impassioned breath on my neck.  His lips are ripe and full.”

“Let him speak to you,” Matruska instructs. “and listen carefully to what he says.”

I breathe back into the scene. In my mind we sit together on the side of a hill. There are others there, women, but at a distance.

“Can you help me?” I ask the man. He looks deep into my eyes, as if knowing me, then turns his back and walks away. I yell after him. “Do not go, I beseech you!”

“This is auspicious,” Matruska says. “You have seen a face. Ask if he is your husband?”

I do not feel that he is, and yet, there is something there, something compelling and indefinable. His eyes are dark and penetrating, looking through me as he answers.

“I am the father of your child, but your husband is another.”

I bolt from the bed, ripping the cloth from my face and feather from my heart, its anchoring stone tumbling across the floor.

“This is not working,” I tell her. “This is wrong, this is all wrong.”

She moves to my side, calming me.

“Come away now, into cool night air and tell me what happened.”

I am embarrassed, not wanting to share. She leads me outside, down a narrow path and onto a forest swing beneath barren wisteria vines.

What happened?

I sit on the balcony of the Gentlemen’s Club, black coffee in hand, thinking of the future, not wanting to be home. The day is frigid, my fingers red with cold, as muffled voices from inside make me feel less alone. Small puffs of breath fill the air with each chilly exhale, a visual reminder that I am still among the living.

I reach in my pocket feeling her diamond ring, remembering the day we married. But the warmth of the moment is immediately overridden by the scavenger’s words, forever burned in memory.

“Yep, she were dead all right, cold and gone. Don’t know what happened to the body but weren’t me who moved it. Would never disfigure the dead, knowing that Holy Mary, Mother of God would bring a curse down on me and mine.  I’d say the river rose after we left and washed her out.”

The door swings open, an unexpected burst of warm air.

“Attwood, old fellow,” Baron Dorchester exclaims. “There you are. Why on earth would you be outside on a day like this? You’ll catch a chill. Come inside and have a brandy. We could use your opinion in our venting.”

“And what would that be about?” I ask, ready to be pulled away.

“The men who think they have a credible claim to the status of Gentlemen simply because they’ve been given the right to vote. Can you imagine, men who earn an income through working wanting to join a Gentleman’s Club? Last month we had a lawyer apply and even a portrait painter, the last chap claiming he had business with you!”

 The audacity of the gesture angers me. “I can assure you, Baron, that I have no acquaintanceship with portrait painters. I blame the reformation act, which has many men believing they can be enfranchised members, where I would strongly recommend they establish clubs of their own.”

“That was my opinion as well,” the Baron says, thumping me on the back. “When will you resume your obligations in Parliament and what has become of the Manor after that dreadful business with your wife?”

I don’t feel ready to discuss my affairs but find no escape.

“Albert has closed Yorkshire Manor, remaining in the butler’s quarters. Perkins and a few stable lads continue to tend the horses. A single parlor maid remains and has placed dust covers over the furnishings. The manor has been officially secured and I question whether or not to keep it. I had hoped Lady Attwood would find her way back one day but now I must face the truth. As for parliament, that remains unresolved.”  

I think privately of my duty and responsibility to England, but lack capacity for the things I once valued. I imagine the red leather benches in the House of Lords, and the impassioned opposition between Labour and Conservative parties, the very heart and soul of England, the blood of my ancestors, and yet not a single beat of my heart allows me to return. I am a shadow of a former self, a stranger in my life.

“I imagine Baron, that I will take an extended leave, in the hope that far-reaching travel may set me right.”

A great pounding startles me awake, unrelenting and insistent. 

Newspaper crinkles against my face as I rise, attempting to traverse the room. I unlatch the door feeling dazed and provoked, wishing for the first time that Julia was still employed to handle such unpleasantness.

“Excuse me sir, sorry to bother you.”

A bobbie stands before me in high collared tunic, pulling a notebook from his pocket.

“Lord Attwood?  I am from New Scotland Yard with orders to escort you to Whitehall Place. If you would come with me please.”

I brush sleep from my eyes, not sure if I’m dreaming. Then, my mind clears, a burst of optimism opening in my heart.

“Do you have news of my wife?  Have you found her?”

He is reluctant to speak. “It would be best to discuss this at the station.”

How dare he! “Officer, I must know. Has she been located? Is she alright?”

He takes a step forward, removing his helmet. “It is not my place,” he says, yielding to my insistence, “but I can tell you, that there was a fine piece of police work done by our men near Fleet Street yesterday. If they had not been on their toes, our suspects would have slipped right out of London.

Our men in the west end have been tracking a shady but seemingly harmless character by the name of Gavin McFlannery, who was accompanied by his wife, Maggie, since they made a sale of questionable items last month in Liverpool, items way above their station, if you know what I mean? The couple was nabbed attempting to sell a women’s ring of precious gems, which we believe may have belonged to your wife.”

“And?” I ask.

The policeman is feeling proud now, willing to entrust even more details of the investigation.

“They have admitted to taking that and other items from a dead woman in early spring near the River Derwent. We need you to come to Scotland Yard to identify the ring. It won’t take much of your time.”

A dead woman. His words pierce my heart, backing me into the room to sit down. “Are you sure she was dead?”

He follows me in, standing rigid in winter greatcoat and shiny black boots, a whistle suspended from a brass chain on the second button of his tunic. There is a moment of quiet when he realizes he may have divulged too much.

“These are things to discuss at Scotland Yard, Sir, but yes, dead. That is what the man said, that was his justification for stealing the goods. His wife, who was with him at the time, concurred. We need you to identify the jewelry and a few other items of clothing. We believe from the fullness of their pockets, that other belongings must have already been sold.”

I look around at the chaos in the drawing room, as if seeing it for the first time, the reality in his words striking a severe blow.

“Has the body been retrieved?” I ask, feeling numb.

He is formal again. “You’ll need to accompany me to the station.”

“Yes, of course, of course,” I mutter, wondering what to bring.

The policeman waits, folding his hands on his dutyband, unaware of the anguish he’s delivered, while I grab a stack of official papers, confused, thinking I may be required to stop at the House of Lords when I finish, as if I were going out for afternoon tea.  What was it Lord Higgins said? They needed my vote to block Ireland’s home rule and something about the regulation of movable dwelling for the gypsies. Surely delay is best,  for if Ireland is granted home rule, who would be next and what would become of England’s power?

I sit at the table in front of a cold fireplace, paralyzed, legislative papers in my hand, my body and thoughts motionless.

The officer breaks the silence, his words hanging in the air as cold as the room. “You may want to begin with muffler and overcoat, Sir. There is a stern wind blowing.”

“You must eat something, Jonathon. You can not go on like this.”

Lord Higgins stands over me like a well-intended monk, his curly red hair coiling around the edges of his bowler.

 “You have done everything you can possibly do, and now it is time to attend responsibilities. It has been six months with police searching night and day and an advertisement in every paper in England. If she were alive she would have been reported. It is hard to face John, but her body must have been carried away in the river, and washed out to sea. It’s simple logic. The horse was dead. The coachman was dead. How could she have survived?”

How could she have survived? I ask myself the same thing every day as the scene plays in my mind again and again, like a bad dream I can not escape: the mangled carriage, the open empty eyes of the coachmen, the broken gouged carcass of the horse, all bloody and lifeless in an avalanche of tragedy, all laying in a wet mass of mud and silt. I am possessed by the image of rain dripping from the brim of my hat as I surveyed the scene, like tears falling from the sky, acknowledging the end of my life. 

But there was no Ivy, no sign of Ivy anywhere. I have taken a leave of absence from parliament, intending to continue my search but find I am weighed down by depression and grief.  

My head rests in my hands as I watch Lord Higgins pace around the table, his good intentions beginning to grate on my nerves.

“And another thing, you must employ Julia again, even if she does remind you of Lady Attwood’s absence.  Constantly shuttered windows and an untidy house is not a sign of health or leadership. You have responsibilities John, to your country and community. Admit that Ivy is dead. Have a service, grieve and get on with your life. It is time.”

He turns before leaving. “I will pray for you John.”

I smirk. Save your prayers, for the devil has my soul now. I follow like a good host, but only to lock the door behind him.

The sofa looks inviting and I am tired. No need to remove shoes or shirt, just close my eyes and melt into a dream beyond this troubled place, but the night brings no relief. Night after night I bolt upright in cold sweaty clothes, hearing her call my name, hearing her tell me that she is still alive. I kick over a stack of newspapers as I pass the table, grabbing one in my hand, as if squeezing it hard enough will reveal her location.

“Where are you my love?” I yell into the empty room, pleading through tears. “Please, forgive me for not being with you and come back to me. You can not be dead, can you? Could you really be gone? Has my grief brought me to an insanity I can not contain?”

Our wagon bumps up and down over seldom traveled roads as I look into a bright November sky. I tally the months since they took me from the river bank calculating four and a half.  Little Mila and Avon play with a single tin soldier on the floor, as Angelina continues to knit. We travel now to Essex to meet Matruska. I am apprehensive, tossing in my sleep last night, unprepared to hear what she might discover. What if she can tell me where I belong? What then? This family has become my heart. Can I rip myself away for an unknown future?

I clutch my gift which is simply painted, but improved by borrowed strokes of Edwin’s mastery. The touch of it brings the warmth of his parting embrace and remembered words of encouragement. He was distracted when we left, busying himself with packing and shipped the portrait he completed of me to an agent in France. I am edgy and tense as we stop near a thicket, an uneasy feeling pulsing in my belly.

“Matruska no longer travels,” Angelina tells me. “She has settled in the grove. We will make camp one mile north, returning to get you before dark.”

Angelina sees the fear in my eyes and covers my trembling hand.

“It is better to know, my friend, then to wonder. Take what gifts she can give you for the sake of those who may love you and all that’s been lost.”

I leave my walking stick in the wagon, needing it less and less, and descend the stairs, stroking the horse’s neck as I pass. “See you soon girl,” I say, stalling for time. She turns to me, hoping for a piece of carrot, but I have nothing. The wagon pulls away as I stand frozen and conflicted at Matruska’s door. I do not announce myself or knock, having an overwhelming sense of crossing a threshold that may change my life.

“Hello there Maya. Word of your visit has reached me.” Matruska yells her pronouncement from the forest, buckets of potatoes weighing heavy from each hand. “Come inside and sit down. I have made us some soup.”

The smell of Irish soda bread wafts from a wood burning stove as Matruska places her buckets in a cool corner. Herbs hang overhead, creating a ceiling of foliage which permeates her home with scent.  

“First we eat,” she says pulling out a chair. “Then we visit. Then we read.”

Matruska is smaller than I imagined with hair more white than grey, and a sinewy body I would have judged frail, if I’d not seen her hoisting potatoes like buckets of dust. A loom sits in the corner near embers of fire, a woolen cloth waiting on the warp.

“What have you brought me?” She claps her hands together like a child, excited.  “What gift do you bring?”

I untie the string that holds brown paper against the painting, letting it fall away. My floral canvas is revealed. She looks pleased as she cleans her hands to reach for it, but as her fingers touch the frame, she stops, alarmed, flailing her arms and pulling brusquely away.

 “What is it?” I ask, feeling crushed. “Has my gift displeased you?”

Matruska sits down looking ashen and electrified, the fallen painting askew on the floor. She is silent, staring at the canvas and then at me.

“There is betrayal in this work. A man’s hand. A man has betrayed you. Someone you trust.”

We set up an easel near the sea with Edwin looking very not traveller-like in white linen suit, wide-brimmed straw hat and camel polished shoes. He seems cheerful and excited to be teaching.

“Every pure and refined pleasure for which a person acquires a relish, is to that extent a safeguard against a low and debasing lifestyle. Horace Mann said that, and he was correct. In learning to paint my dear, you will save yourself from the possibility of a debased life.”

Romany children play near the water, while their mothers gather wood scrapes, jackets and shawls sheltering them from brisk ocean air. An invigorating wind billows in the giant sails of ships traveling near the harbor, but doesn’t dislodge the canvas. Edwin will not paint today, but instruct.

“The artistic and aesthetic experiences are inseparable. Since you have a strong visual sensitivity I believe you will make a good painter.”

He shows me how to hold the brush and palette, having already arranged colors for me to use. “Look, there are late blooming roses. Begin with those. Be the master of your brush, meticulous but bold.”

Edwin has prepared and textured the canvas, which awaits my first efforts. I make a mark, which is just a mark, nothing more than crude round circles where flowers should be. I enjoy the feel of the brush and the sight of vibrant hues on my palette, but fear I’ll make nothing of value. Edwin, sensing my thoughts, moves behind me, placing his hand over mine, lending his mastery. Miraculously, short confident strokes become petals, a recognizable image. He takes his hand away as I mimic his movements. I am encouraged, beaming at my beginner’s ability.

He chuckles; walking to the side of the canvas, then surprises me by obstructing my stroke.

“These hands bare scars but are not the hands of one who labors.”

He holds my hand prisoner, slowly caressing my skin, as if studying something out of view, then withdraws, walking quickly away. I continue to dab petals into being as he throws his hat to the ground, leaning heavily against the trunk of a hawthorne tree.

“Do you mean to tell me that you have absolutely no recollection of your former life at all, nothing?”

He picks up last weeks conversation like it was only seconds ago. I pause before answering, caught off guard.

“I feel something when you speak French, but it’s not a remembering, more a distant knowing. Yet there is one voice I hear that speaks with a lilt as I drift off to sleep, but that is more nightmare than memory.”

Edwin buttons his jacket against the wind, the moisture in the breeze curling his beard. “Discount nothing,” he demands. “All is of value at this juncture. Continue. What is it? What do you remember?”

I feel embarrassed and awkward, the moment unnerving. The dream recurs in the dim shadows of my mind and feels dangerous to speak of, as if words alone could bestow a power to harm me. We stand together in silence as he waits and I gather courage. I look away from him and begin.

“It’s a disembodied man’s voice I hear, accompanied by the smell of a recently oiled knife. I can almost feel his breath on my face as he chatters indifferently about cutting off my fingers.”

Edwin gasps. “Oh my dear, surely that is only a dream. I’m sorry I brought it up. I did not mean to distress you. Perhaps one day something will come of a pleasant nature. Until then, you are safe and can busy yourself by posing for me and establishing rudimentary skills.”

Edwin’s attention is drawn to a seagull playing in currents of ocean air.

“Such a shame no one had heard anything about an accident or missing woman when I went to Kent. But rest assured that I will continue my inquiries on your behalf. Perhaps there will be something printed in The Times. Until then, dear one, you are wise to stay with the gypsies and far from view.”

There is strangeness about Edwin but I’ve come to trust him, and am grateful for his efforts.  

“How fortunate I am to have befriended you, Edwin. Thank you.”

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

Angelina sits next to me, our campfire shooting sparks into the night. “It’s time to find your people. The gorgio painter, Edwin Augusto, knows how to read and move freely among the outsiders. We could send him into the tavern with ten pence for ale to see what can be uncovered, but you must confide in him first. Then there is Matruska, the best reader among us. We pass her caravan in three weeks time. She uses her sight, cards or the lines of your palm. Surely she can find something to light your way. Make a gift for her, an offering and it will go well.

I find myself eager to know and yet, oddly afraid. A question burns in my throat which finally blurt out.

“How is it that Edwin is accepted among you but I am not?”

Angelina becomes serious as she tends my question. First, Edwin has traveled with us before. He is a man with a family and is not missed by his community. And second, you are accepted among us. How could you feel otherwise?”

Angelina dips a rag in warm water, swiping at Avon’s face as he darts by, an invitation to chase in his smile. She shakes her finger and her motherly head, brimming with love for her son, then returns to our conversation.  “Is it Tarnia?”

I will not tell her that Tarnia ‘accidently’ smashed into me on my way from the sea, knocking me face down in the dirt, nor will I repeat her taunting remarks, but I will speak of it.

“If she could stop hating me, I could explain that I am no threat to her, and that Luca is fully hers. Really, how could I start anything without knowing if I am married or not?  I told her I wanted to discuss this, and she seemed willing to listen, offering to have me by for foxglove tea, but I have heard nothing.”

Angelina roars with laughter. “Have you over for tea, is it? Then you can be lucky she has not come by, since foxglove is poison when made into tea.” She falls sideways with amusement, but I do not find it funny.

She counsels me as she steadies herself, gaining composure.  “Try to avoid her. Tarnia has a fierce temper but would not harm you. Come pick lavender with us this week and watch me sell from the wagon. Here is my song:

Will you buy my sweet lavender, sweet blooming lavender? Come buy my pretty lavender, sixteen bunches a penny. 

─̶

I seek out Edwin to confide my story and ask for his help. His children play near the wagon, as his ladies, Athenia and Wren clear away the evening meal. We talk into the night, devising a plan.

I turn to leave, realizing I’ve forgotten something. “Oh, can you teach me to paint something in one month’s time? I need a gift from my own hand to offer a seer.”

─

 As Maya walks away, Wren whispers in Edwin’s ear.

“You know who she is. All of England is searching for her. Why do you keep it a secret?”

I sit at an angle, one arm draped over the back of a chair.

“Your gaze must be consistent,” Edwin tells me. “Try looking at the pot on the wall, like it is a handsome stranger.”

“Where did you learn to paint?” I ask, smiling at the pot.

“One never stops learning to paint, my dear. But I began at the Tenby School of Art, attended Slade in London and studied independently in Paris, but my greatest advances came during an unexpected convalescence.  I suffered a fall from a horse at thirty-two and found the time I spent bound to the house invaluable.”

Edwin sits on a stool to paint, one thumb sticking through a hole in a wooden palette, holding both the oblong board and additional brushes. The rim of the palette is covered with a rainbow of hues, which he sparingly retrieves to mix at the center. I am fascinated, but my body has begun to ache.

“Is Luca your young man?” he asks.

The question makes me uncomfortable. “No. He is promised to another.”

“Would you like me to give you some lessons when we have finished? I sense an artistic interest and a visual sensitivity, perhaps one afternoon when the light is right, we could walk to the channel.”

I feel suddenly out of my depth. “No, thank you. I should be getting back.”

“Ah, be still my dear, one moment more and I will promise to stop prying into your life. I can only do so much from memory, so will need to have you sit again before the week is out.”

Only forty-five minutes has passed, but my body is tired. I try to be patient while wanting to bolt, both energies swirling within. My breathing deepens as my eyes well with tears. I must find my way back to myself, I reason, where ever that is. I can not live among strangers for the rest of my life. I must try harder. I must force something into memory. Surely something is there, if I concentrate, implore and push it to the surface.

The force of my feelings become explosive.  “I really must go now. Please hand me my walking stick at once.”

Edwin puts down his brushes, wiping his hands on an already soiled cloth. He helps me up, placing his arm around my shoulder, then leads me to the canvas. “What do you think, my dear? Is it a good beginning?”

I am stunned at the image peering back at me. It is far from complete, but holds an essence of myself astonishing to witness. The likeness looks wise but calm, radiant, distressed and bewildered. His swift fluid strokes are unafraid of vibrant color, leaving me spellbound and absorbed.

This jolt of realism sends me stumbling out the door into a shade-less afternoon. I make my way to a remote corner of the beach, take off my clothes and bathe, floating belly up in salted water.

Luca stands before me, eyes closed, lost in music. The slow draw of his violin bow, reaching into my soul, awakening and stirring feelings without name. I am transported, in tones of melancholy, sweet, anguished and hushed. I surrender to each exquisite note, feeling my heart rend with every stroke from his bow, then without warning, an accordion joins him, abruptly changing tempo. The music climbs toward the sky, fast and buoyant, as dancers burst onto the open field swirling and laughing. He opens his eyes now, smiling at me, the cheerfulness of his face and good spirits of the evening comfort me.

“Love! Love the music but do not love the man.” A woman stands in front of me deliberately blocking my view. “Luca belongs to me.”

The woman has a thin orange scarf holding back long hair, its carroty color falling against an off-shoulder blouse. Hoop rings adorn her ears, spangled necklaces cover a bulging chest. I have trouble seeing her face as she is backlit by fire but see a flash from a jeweled anklet near her hem. “You are a gorgio. How do you come to be here?”  Her hands are placed firmly on her hips.

Angelina approaches with Marko and the children, lines of worry on her forehead. “Ah Tarnia,” she says. “I see you have met Maya.”

“Who is this gorgio,” she demands. “What have you done bringing her here?”

Marko steps between us, instinctively sheltering me as Angelina explains.

“I don’t care,” shouts Tarnia, her fiery temper towering above Angelina’s gentle voice. “Bringing her here puts us all in danger. We are already called wild and dangerous, thieves, witches, baby snatchers and worse! Our very existence is illegal. They break our arms and blame us for being crippled. Would you have them come upon us with bayonets and kalashnikor to kill us as we sleep, for stealing a red haired gorgio?”

Marko takes Tarnia by the shoulder, pulling her away, speaking to her calmly under his breath. Her eyes dart back at me in warning. “If you don’t get rid of her I will!”

Luca motions me forward to watch him step dance but the chill of Tarnia’s company sends me walking in another direction. I hear the clapping of feet on wood and slapping of legs as the men begin, but I need to leave such festivities.

It is dim but the wagons are well lit, beautifully and brightly painted. I run my fingers along their carved sides, admiring the glint of gold leaf on the border. It is very different then ours, which has been painted green to be less noticeable in the woodlands.

“Do you like the artwork?”  

A male voice seems to come from nowhere. “Oh, I did not mean to startle you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Edwin Gates from Wales, traveling with my wife, mistress and seven children. We live in Provence, between Arles and Marseille much of the time but the area is changing, and not for the better. I feel the need to travel with the gypsies now, to refresh my spirit and my art.”

He hesitates studying me from head to foot. “Forgive me, Madame, but you are not Romany.”

I search his eyes, wondering if he could know me, if he could hold a missing piece of my identity, but am quick to dismiss such foolishness.

“What kind of art do you do?”

He moves closer now, his features shadowed by moonlight. His eyes penetrate as if looking for truth. His cheeks are rosy and full, framed by the grey of his hair and beard. A white shirt lays open, covered by another with tiny buttons running the length of its silkened brown fabric. I guess him to be a man of sixty years.

“I am a painter. I sketch in oil and do figure drawings. I enjoy portraiture which has been both praised and condemned as extravagant. Those who like me, compare my work to Matisse, those who do not, call me une bête sauvage. Do you like the impressionists?”

Une bête sauvage, a wild beast. The words are not English yet recognizable. There is something familiar about this man. His talk of art finds a home in me, as do his forays into another language. “I don’t know,” I tell him, tripping over my words. “I don’t know if I like Impressionists or not.”

Edwin Gates looks through me, his thoughts forceful and private. “Then let me show you my paintings, and when we have finished I will paint you.”  He lifts his hand, placing it on my chin, then turns my face slowly to the right. “Yes,” he repeats. “Come tomorrow and we will begin. Let the others pick lavender. I can already see the colors I will mix to catch the depth of your emerald eyes.”

I hear Luca and Tarnia arguing, as I make my way to the wagon under a star-filled night.

Marko, Angelina’s husband, walks to the porch hiding something behind his back.

“Close your eyes, Maya, and hold out your hand.”

I do as I’m instructed, a smile creeping across my face. “What is it?”

I hear the creak of wooden steps as he ascends each one. His fingers rough and callused as he opens my hand.

“Oh, Marko, it’s beautiful, truly beautiful!” A blackthorn walking stick with gnarled bark and deep red hue sits naturally in my palm. Marko takes a worn cloth from his pocket, wiping his brow from the heat of afternoon sun, clearly pleased with his work.

“I found the wood at the edge of the forest; air dried it these last few months and inscribed a rune at the end of the stave. Today it is finished.”

I look at the end of the wood seeing a single line with two smaller lines meeting at the center. It looks like a little tent sitting sideways on a straight line. “What does it mean?”

“It is a symbol from the ancient ones meant to protect the bearer on dark and lonely roads.”

My smile fades. A gesture that comes too late, I think, but say nothing.

“Try it,” he insists, pulling me to my feet. “Angelina is by the water with the little ones, gathering clay to bake our dinner. Go and surprise her.”

I have used my injured leg as an excuse to hide for months now, feeling unsafe and unsure about everything, but mostly about myself. I dress in other woman’s skirts and shawls, my hair cascading around my waist, while Angelina wears a headscarf or diklo to show she is married. I search my mind for any trace of partner or married life, but find nothing. Is there someone missing me? I wonder.

I make my way down the stairs, slowly and cautiously, the walking stick supporting every move.  I am wary and vigilant, but find this new support allows a level of self-assurance I did not expect. Marko sees my grin and radiates with pleasure. He smells of sweat and wood smoke, as I hobble past.

We are in the south now at Somerset, near an estuary. Black horses with white faces and long white manes pull our wagons from place to place at night, often surprising me with a new location in the morning. I am told we move because others are not friendly, which I find difficult to understand.

The path meanders through a clearing in the woods that opens to the sea, where narrow-billed sandpipers stand on twigs probing for dinner, unbothered by the mud-slinging antics of Angelina’s children.

“Look,” says Angelina, pretending there is nothing unusual about seeing me away from the wagon. “The children have found eggs for our breakfast.”

My walking is stilted but steady, the ocean breeze a healing balm. I close my eyes, letting a salty wind kiss my face as Mila, Angelina’s youngest, runs to me, holding up two speckled eggs. Avon follows her, holding his own. They have apples in a basket and hedgehogs for dinner, which I stare at in disbelief.

“How will you remove the prickles?” I ask.

She waves her hand in the water, washing away the mud, dries them on her apron and walks to my side. “We bake it in the fire. When the hardened clay shell is removed, the prickles come off. The meat is delicious. I’ve herbs of agrimony and sorrel to go with it. Come, I’ll show you. Tomorrow we go to Kentish to meet other travellers. We will pick lavender, play czardas, share stories and step dance. It is time you met other Romanies.”

I totter along next to her, the children dancing round trees as we go. “It’s good to see you mended, my friend,” she says, threading her arm around my waist. “Now, it is time to recover your smile.”