People say it’s a bug.
And it certainly is.
Once bitten, She’s got you – the wild temptress of this gypsy tribe I find myself born into.
The symptoms? Restless legs, a need for bare feet and the smell of the ocean, a distractedness, curly hair, a discomfort amongst ones ‘home’, inner bumpy roads and a heart that’s always breaking just a little. And sometimes a lot.
She bit me. Years ago. Maybe she bit me at birth. I’ll never be sure. She cradles you, makes your heart beat wildly, inspires you and then takes her bite. And you’re Hers.
But Her sidekick is the messenger. He is the one to worry about. He is clever. And insidious. And very handsome. He makes you unsure of your thoughts and plants his own in his ever charming, calming way. He’s a polite guest. Nice to your friends, at first. And everyone says you glow when He’s around. But that’s because they don’t know Him.
Recently, I greeted the messenger. He showed up as I begun to spend my nights awake, as He always does. As one must when the messenger arrives, I was hospitable. Welcoming.
‘Come in’
‘Sit Down’
‘Take a load off’
I flirted a little. It’s impossible not to.
I asked for His coat and if He was seeing anyone. I hoped that after a short nap amongst my synapses, He would be on His merry way to find His intended target. His next muse. When He would unroll his scroll and say “Come on babe, are you going to make me read it? Again?”
Then He would proceed to read, “Dearest Recipient, It’s time. The winds have changed. Pack your bags. Say your farewells”. And us of the tribe know what that means. It’s the pact we signed, somewhat unfairly without understanding the consequences, of being born under a wandering star.
Now, not all of this motley crew of signatories find it unfair. And it makes me think that maybe I was bitten twice. Once by Her, His master, and once directly on my heart by something that snuck under the radar. And the bite must have come from Her nemesis because it made my heart swell. It became inflamed. And a heart too large can only ever do one thing – love hard. And want to stay.
The Symptoms? Crying in movie trailers, being struck by disrupting giggles, an honest mouth, a tactile soul, a desire to hug and to build and to form roots. But most of all, it infects you with the inability to own the gift of the first bite – the ability to say goodbye and keep all the pieces of your heart.
Despite Her best efforts, that second bite forms an equal part of my nature. The thought of leaving can’t help but remind me of all the little incidental love stories that my ‘home’ holds for me. The love stories that are always a result of severe inflammation. The love stories of all the images and scents and sounds and people I know I will ache for, even as I venture into the exact place I feel the pull to be. The memories on random streets, the pent up feelings on beaches or benches or in the passenger seats of cars, the walking routes, the old coffee haunts, the favourite wine bars.
The places I sit to watch the water.
And the waterside places we sit and I watch the other him. The him that loves my bites but must wish they had just taken a nibble instead of a chunk.
On one of said park benches this week, I read a beautiful poem about wishing for an Ending Light; one that would grow bright whenever an ending was floating around you. One that would alert you to eat from the menu the foods you’ve never tasted, to thank the people passing through, to take the car for one last spin at the lips of an imminent ‘Sold’ sign.
My problem is, my swollen heart can always sense when an ending is near, know when something is coming to a close, feel the tingle of the bite marks that mean I know I’m feeling it all. I don’t need a light. And it’s in every moment of savouring, that I overexert the muscles of my heart. In every moment that the gift of the vagabond rears her enchanting head, the throb of my heart makes me remember, I am not good at goodbye.
That it is not easy for me. Someone who, despite best intentions, regularly practices the art of falling in love; with people on the bus, with a song I hear, a street I walk down, a routine I have. With people’s laughs and the way they say certain words, with watching a couple of friends who only ever get coffee together, with secluded beachside spots that are private sanctuaries, with the perfect people-watching café chair.
And so, it would seem, I am destined to be a living breathing dichotomy; an act of squeezing two seemingly contradictory bites into one thought, one sentence, one person. A rogue heart who loves adventure and the woman always falling in love with one place.
Am I faulty? Or in my last orbit around the planets, when I must have wished to squeeze all the juice from my next life, is it rather that the Powers That Be simple listened to my request? And this is the price to be paid.
For the fortune of a wandering swollen heart.
Those of us now twice bitten, once shy.
The messenger was not knocking at the wrong door. And when I refused to listen to Him with both ears, She appeared. She swept through like a dancing hurricane. And it meant my shoes couldn’t stay on my feet. I couldn’t breath away from the ocean. My hair wouldn’t stay straight and my inner bumps were knocking me around like I was in a faulty 4×4. She entered my dreams. In every quiet moment of peace, she was there. Looking at me with my own big brown eyes, with a look that said, ‘You already know I’m right’.
And I knew.
I am the gypsy She was looking for. And all of my attempts to distract Her or placate Her, only fed Her. Made Her more beautiful. More shiny. She morphed in to the vision of myself that I want to see in every mirror. Soon, She was me. She showed me visions of myself dancing. And twirling. And giggling. And falling in love with new streets and new smells and new coffee shops. And in trying to distract Her with little agreements, in giving into Her a little, She made me feel whole. And there isn’t a person on earth who doesn’t yearn for that feeling.
And so, I am packing a bag.
I keep staring at him.
I keep falling in love.
Because I can’t help it.
But I am also headed with the wind. And She’s picking up her pace. The chimes are getting louder and my loves can hear Her now too.
To the people I love who I leave here, at this stop, these are the things She doesn’t want me to tell you. But She is jealous and manipulative and I can’t leave them unsaid.
My wandering soul should never be an indication that you aren’t enough for me to stay. I am the world’s worst gypsy. The most conflicted vagabond.
It is only ever, rather, that I can feel the infections growing and meeting and molding me. And I can sense a time now, unlike any other for me, where these bug bites must have the chance stop competing. To learn to co-habitate. To make me free. And I can’t ignore that.
But.
(and there is always a but)
In these long, drawn out but way-too-rapid weeks that lead up to my inevitable airport drive, I struggle to carry on as I did before.
I miss you desperately already.
And you are still next to me.
I have a torturous gift of living in all three tenses at once in these days ahead. I sit on park benches or in cafes or on beaches with you and remember the day we met, guard the way my heart feels next to you in that very moment and understand that ahead, there will be no more moments with you for a while.
I feel the past, present and future all in a single breath. And it makes me grateful and a little crazy. It makes me love you harder and makes me feel so guilty for making you love me.
But maybe that’s why you love me anyway.
From the bottom of my wild heart,
I am Forever Fond.
Always.