Maroulla was a gypsy.
She hailed from the land of the gods and was a direct descendant – Mother Earth was her grandmother. She called her YaYa.
Maroulla was a quiet child, given to reading and prone to gazing about. Her head was always in a book as she traveled the adventurous journey of words. The world was open to her, and she wandered.
As she got older, her parents wanted her to focus and find a profession. Find a spouse. Get married. Have children. Care for the elders. They were concerned.
“She’ll amount to nothing if she’s always lost in a book,” said her mother.
“What does she see of the world besides the black and white of the ink,” asked her father. “She doesn’t even know the color of the sky.”
Her parents had fallen out of the grace of the Olympian kingdom and didn’t have access to the will or the might of the sacred deities. So they watched and waited and coaxed. But she would have none of it.
She was a good child. Gentle with others, she studied and kept clean. Her mind was grounded but her heart trekked the globe.
Her family had lived among many of the peoples of the earth. She had experienced more than the utterance of ink, but it wasn’t enough and her soul had a thirst.
One day the west wind, Zephyrus, blew a thought to Maroulla – she should venture away from the land of the gods, discover what was beyond, put words together to capture it in thought, create her own bound copy of the unbound.
She was pleased.
The wind had whispered in her ear. Intoxicating. Provocative. Inspiring. She had been seduced. And, she was ready to wander.
She spent the evening in her room, going in circles. Thinking of where to go, whom to see, what to discover. She walked until she met herself in the center. She did it again. And again. And again. She wore a path in the dirt below her feet, and when she finally stepped back to look, she had created a beautiful pattern.
From nowhere and everywhere, the air touched her skin. A cool rush of knowing skimmed her. And she set off.
Her parents never understood the events of that night. When they looked in her room the next day, all they found was a meander on the floor. And a book, blank in 100 pages except the one which stated – all who wander are not lost.
