To the Gypsy That Remains

by Haley Hoover

This morning I have a powerful connection with an old song.  I have often loved this song, but today my love discovers new depths through it.

I often times feel like plastic.  I am shiny and positive and talkative and productive.  I am energized by people and so I nearly always find myself at the mercy of others.  I love people and interaction.

Yet deep down there is still this whole other person.  This deep intellectual who has always felt shunned and scared. She is a child, a small girl who must be cherished and nourished and drawn out.  Perhaps it is my inner artist-child as Julia Cameron suggests, or maybe it is just the softer me.  The softer me does not beg for attention or ask to be seen.  She knows she is worthy and her heart waits patiently to be sought after.

It is this woman that leaks out in my early morning walks, my extended painting sessions, and in the pages of my journal.

How must I draw her near?


Some have been introduced before.  They laugh or they judge or they accept.  All of it hurts.

I’ve written about her before.  I want her to blossom!  It’s hard to draw her out when there is no trust or stability. She is not open to other people yet.  She has to be comfortable first with me and then with herself.  When time has passed she might eventually warm up to others.  It’s hard to say why she is so timid.

I think she is timid because she is valuable.  Her demeanor holds depth.  She is beauty and truth.  She has thoughts and opinions and deep concerns — concerns that, we often overlook.  She has dreams and desires and goals that aren’t apparent to the onlooker.  She wants to create and sell and give.  Her purpose is to bring her great joy to the world’s great need.

But how will she do that?

This lady is tender and sweet.  She loves relentlessly, always pouring out herself. She bleeds on paper, in the air and on to the unknown.  It’s the heart that bleeds.

So magnificent, yet only a child.  The child’s only question is directed at me.  She sings, “Am I enough, enough for you to love — enough to love?”

I look up and she is dancing away, away with wind and into the sky.  The tender young woman never had her chance.

She was only a wish.
Just a wish.
She was just a wish.

Only a memory…but it’s up to me to rescue her.

Journal, Volume 2 Issue 6