From John Masefield’s ‘Sea Fever’ (thank you, Mom, for imprinting my being with poetry and literature galore!). These words ran through me in broken intervals for those eight years of being a gypsy:
“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky….
During my homeless years the ocean was my sacred place. No matter what corner of LA I was inhabiting at the moment (and I camped out in every corner), I HAD to somehow ‘make it’ to the ocean’s edge every single day. I had to. Not easy! But this was where my soul got sustenance, where I could talk to my mother, where I could cry, where I could re-group and keep going, where no-one would see me or hear me and I didn’t need to be brave or light or beautiful or magical or cheerful.
“….And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking”
Where I could look at the underbelly of things and make friends with that belly in an entirely new way.
“I must go down the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;”
Where I could feel the power and beauty of the earth with no humans in sight and join in its might and wildness.
“And all I ask is a windy day with white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.”
And then spread my wings and come back to the land of people and look up and listen in awe from down below.
“I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,….”
And there were gifts in that walk, as tumultuous and isolating and trying as it was.
“…..And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”
Thank you, John Masefield, as poetry, words from other hearts and times can be one’s best friend, and thank you, God.
The End.