Gypsy Girl

A Story by Michaela Spain

Lost soul found home through love and God.

He told me that with my two lips, I paint words across the world. Words so seamless and colorful people whisper, “Van Gogh who?”. Words that when heard, echo through fingertips and toes, vibrates through souls, and captures the essence of the word beauty in only six syllables and all I had to say was, “The daises smell like honey.”

It’s been a year so he took me to a garden for our last day in Portland. It was the garden of all gardens, the type that God knew would be the healing place for broken souls. Art and literature were in the small cottage and behind was miles of wildflowers. I looked maybe a mile left of us, and there is a long line outside of this big, glass building. Apparently, the garden of wildflowers was a piece of art; a piece of “God’s art” and we were on an excursion that included photos, paintings, sculptures, stories, and classical music. The glass building was a photographer’s studio where she sold her photos and allowed fellow photographers to submit their photos to be put on display and auctioned off. I could have walked around that building for days but on the first floor there was this black and white photo of someone who looked extremely familiar. Our guide described her as having strong face bones and luminous facial highlights. She was raving about her freckles and marine eyes. The plate read:

She is an inexplicable work of the universe. It’s as if God fearlessly strung together a progression of chords and melodies, to create the symphony of symphonies.

When I went closer and read the plate for myself, the crowd applauded at us. The guide shouted about how lucky they all were that the creator and subject were here to join us. Five or six women came to me and told me that the photo highlights every feature they wish they had and how blessed I was to be beautiful with no makeup. The photo that he submitted of me sold for five thousand dollars. I didn’t care so much about the selling price but more so the empowerment these women gave me and the way that every woman in that room was raising each other up and collectively appreciating another woman, one none of them had ever met before[MS1] . When first looking at that photo, I didn’t see myself. The woman in the photo was comfortable and smiling and completely naked yet fully clothed. None of those women knew me or how I felt about him taking that photo. They didn’t know that it wasn’t meant for a gallery yet they all stood around and praised it and that truly made me feel empowered by their power. They allowed me to see what they saw when they looked at the picture and I think that was the point.

It was in Portland where we met. I was drinking coffee in a tattered, outdated coffee shop that smelled like my grandma’s linen closet but looked and felt like a French man’s family business that was given to him by his father�"passed down through six generations, skipping one because Jacque III preferred smoothies and chai lattes over pressed French vanilla. It was that day where I felt like Portland could be a home for a girl who never had one. I’m a gypsy girl at heart. Born for freedom and with no boundaries, to live. I’ve been everywhere twice and not once did a city feel like home until I got to Portland. But the flight instinct crept, being I was in one place for too long, so I took off, leaving behind the two things I loved; the city so large but felt so small and welcoming and the person who described me as a symphony composed by God.

In the airport leaving Portland, I was sitting at my gate reading and I couldn’t help but notice a woman sitting across from me was crying as she closed her book. The gentleman sitting beside me asked her what was wrong in attempt to console her and because I’m nosey, I of course was eavesdropping. This woman was reading the book East of Eden by John Steinbeck, and apparently, the end was sad (I wouldn’t know, I haven’t read it). What a humbling experience. Someone appreciates the emotion put into the work of the author and could feel and sympathize with the writer to the point of tears. Steinbeck moves people and through his words, he causes a reaction. I filled with inspiration. To myself I said, “I want to do that.” I want to evoke reaction and I want people to read what I write or look at my art or hear my music and feel something.

I find that you create the faith you need to survive. When there’s a void or shift in something, the natural instinct is to fill it. I filled it with love. But I come from a long line of voids and that emptiness and echo is the only thing that reminds me I’m still alive. Some people use God or art or drugs to fill whatever it is their missing and for me it’s simple. For me, I run. I run like hell and I refuse to look back. Like I said, I’m a gypsy girl at heart and I’m born to run. Sometimes I run from the things that could possibly fill those genetic voids. But that scares the hell out of me.

mick