As a child my mother used to say, "Your hair looks like a gypsy's, put it up." And "This room is like a Gypsy's caravan - if you are going to have all this stuff, you are going to have to be the one to clean it." I was seven. This was not a compliment.
From that point on my mother did not come into my room without knocking. If I was at school she may leave dry washing on the bed.
And I cleaned my 'caravan', my haven from life. That particular room had sky blue walls - it was tiny - and it was full. Full of light, and trinkets, textures and colour, full of dreams and hope ...
I showed a friend some of the photos from an earlier post and she said that they did not look like me. After reflecting I realised that while my little home is evolving into my caravan again, and my clothes, are almost all, the hippy/boho/gypsy style I have loved from childhood, I am still wearing my hair up most of the time. More than that I have been seperating my arty life(real me - NOW) from some of my treasured friends, made before I released myself to soar again, to be me. The me my God made me.