Gypsy Woman

What has been forbidden to women is anger -- Carolyn G. Heilbrun

For a long time I have harbored a fallacy in me that suffering is supposed to make us gentle. I have not been able to fit the archetype of who I thought I should be as a person dealing with serious illness. In my mind, I created a vision of what someone who has endured the fires of suffering should be like, and it goes something like this: the Suffering Woman should have an aura of peaceful, gentle martyrdom, with a warmth which drew everyone to her. She would speak softly with words that exuded grace and wisdom. "You are such a saint," people would be saying to her, or they would say to others, "She endures so much and she never complains." When asked how she was doing, the Suffering Woman would never refer to her own worries or pains, but rather, would ask others how they are doing. Also, the woman would develop a pale glow about her, a new kind of beauty. Modesty and gentle humor would be her greatest virtues.

I have carried this incomplete paragon of the Suffering Woman for many years, always trying to measure up, but always falling short. Some days I want to throw things. Some days I am out of sorts and full of frustrations. When I look in a mirror, I do not see a saintly vision of ethereal beauty, but rather a woman who sometimes looks like she has been through the mill, with her hair sticking on end. The perfect, Suffering Woman would never look like that. She would never rant and rave, disclose raw emotions or challenge her spirituality. She would be demure, and always one step ahead of whatever befell her. Even her bedroom would be serene with a satin coverlet perhaps, scented candles, a neat stack of holy books, soft music, and a gentle, purring cat to perfect the ambience.

My bedroom has manuscripts, magazines and a motley collection of books strewn about, a slightly weary Leopard print bedspread and a Siamese cat who bites and almost never purrs. I really wanted this illness to make me gentle. I wanted to become like the perfect Suffering Woman, transformed without protest, with grace, holiness and style. I think I may have read one fairy tale too many, where the Princess never ages, and is always beautiful and saintly. I also think we often misinterpret Bible stories, creating paragons of what a saint should be like, through our own misconceptions which cause us to aspire to impossible perfection and self-sacrifice. In my mind, the truth is that the furthest thing from the truth is that illness or trial makes us gentle. I have found that what it makes us is authentic. Falseness is done away within the trenches. When inner battles are waged, the journey is about soul survival. If you don't evolve beyond gentleness, you won't make it. Gentleness alone cannot give me the strength to fight pettiness in myself every day, the desire to moan and groan or give up. I have to cope with disabilities, disappointments, mistakes, boredom, grief, anger, and every emotion in between. Some days, if I am too sick to talk, it does not make me gentle inside. It makes me feel a deep, hot-blooded, holy, wildness.

So my false vision of the Suffering Woman was dispelled, but I had to find another to replace it. That has not been easy. It is often easier to determine what won't work, rather than what will work. I think this is something we must determine for ourselves. In my mind, the other day, I found myself thinking about a gypsy woman.

I had been sick in bed for most of the day. To occupy myself, I sometimes let my mind go wild, creating images, images which strengthen me. The Gypsy Woman had dark, piercing eyes, and gold jewelry at her throat, ears, ankles and wrists with jingled with intriguing, meaningful charms. Her sturdy boots were of aged leather and her well-worn clothes were of magnificent jewel colors--deep purple, scarlet and emerald green. Her graying hair was wavy and unruly, held back by a comb of black pearls. When I wondered what the black pearls stood for, it came to me that they represented the transformation we go through following times of inner darkness. The woman was on a significant journey, driving a covered wagon pulled by a white horse with blue tassels dangling on his bridle. I went with the daydream, watching as storm clouds gathered in the sky. The horse shook his head as thunder rumbled off in the distance. The Gypsy Woman called robustly to the horse, her hands on the reins firm but affectionate. A small, secluded ravine lay just ahead and they pulled in to rest for the night.

After watering and vigorously rubbing down the horse, the woman retired to her wagon which was like a small cabin containing many wondrous things. She wound a music box with a monkey on top, smiling to herself at the familiar melody. Lighting a small, beaded lantern which illuminated fringed draperies, she set about preparing a supper of mulberries and dried fish. Two canaries perched nearby, while a miniature dog lapped the milk she set out for him from a pitcher. The wind picked up, rocking the wagon. Storms were nothing new to the woman and her companions. "We will ride this one out, like always," she said, as she stepped out of her lovely clothes, draping them on nearby pegs. In the dim light she applied a healing salve to several tender new scars, which, as she said to the loyal little dog, "will heal as thoroughly as the old scars." She was not a stranger to suffering. Her eyes clouded momentarily as a fierceness swept her countenance. Before she slipped between coverlets of fragrant, sun-drenched cotton, she opened a small skylight at the top of her wagon, so that she could always see the stars. Her prayers were honest, to the point, and strong, to a God she knew and loved well. There was a sound like voices whispering as the overhead leaves of the sheltering tree brushed against the wagon top. Dark clouds obscured the moon, but as the Gypsy Woman caught a glimpse of it through her porthole, she said, matter of factly to no one in particular, "I spit at suffering."

The day dream ended, and I laughed at what I had written, and felt pleased.