I have sometimes belonged. And sometimes not.
Finding my tribe has been a reoccurring activity.
An orphan at a tender age, I ran loose through my village, searching for something that was as elusive as the promise of spring during a raging winter storm; my deceased mother.
For the most part, I was free to wander the forest and the fields. More often than not, I sat at a gypsy’s fire, listening to hypnotic music and watching lovers dance by the flames, unaware of what heat ran through their veins.
There were cards at the grandmother’s table in the colourful caravan. I knew nothing of tarot then, I knew almost nothing altogether. I was six.
My own grandmother grew frantic as night approached and I was yet to return, the shadows long on the horizon…sometimes I fell asleep and crept home by the light of the moon. I was never afraid of the dark back then.
That was my original tribe. My grandmother, several caravans of gypsies, some neighbors who ignored my theft of eggs from their chicken coops, a young soldier who regaled me with stories of army life (and who I hoped to one day marry) plus a handful of friends my own age.