Gypsy blood

Today was an idyllic day, and I refused to waste it. Perusing my closest, I selected the trifecta of fall fashion - sweater, skirt, and scarf - and drove to the nearest coffee shop with my Bible, journal, and pen in hand. A steaming hot cup of black coffee and a pane glass window next to busy Monday traffic completed the scene for this hipster-happy moment, where I whiled away my time for hours in absolute bliss.

October.
The month of perfectly gloomy weather, golden trees, and gypsy souls, floating away on dreams like leaves in the wind.

I love summer equally, if not more, than the next person. The splendid summer sun, warm wind, and freedom it brings makes my heart sing and dance.
But there is a certain quality about fall which grips my mind in the best way. The burning passion of colored leaves displayed against the somber grays of cloudy days and rain-swept mornings plunges my thoughts into swirling nonsense and pensive, wandering dreams.  The exuberance of summer is child-like, but the flavor of autumn is age, wisdom, and reflection.

I'd rather the eaves be littered with leaves
     dripping with tears fell'd from heaven.
My soul breathes a sigh, the thunders reply,
     my whimsy and daydreams in tension.

There is something desperately romantic to me about traveling on an autumn day with only one's thoughts for company, staring out the window of a train or a coffeehouse, pondering everything and nothing. You greet a stranger, smile at a child, holding this great secret inside your heart all the while - the secret of yourself, your past, your life, your joys, sorrows, and story.
The definition of a gypsy is a "member of a traveling people." Breathing deeply of this crisp, tangy air awakens the wanderlust and passion for travel in every fiber of my being and calls to the gypsy blood rushing through my quickening heart.

I want to go.
I want to do.
I want to be.

But October chill lulls me to sleep, warmed only by dreams ablaze with October leaves.