Lemurian City of Ladies

Can Gypsies really foretell the future? Can they really know who you are from the lines in your hand?
To truly understand why Gypsies seem to have mysterious powers, you have to understand how they live.
Gypsies live very lightly in the world - they do not build anything, nor are they overly attached to possessions or places. They roam freely through it all, and living very close to nature heightens your senses about certain things.
Older country people, you may have noticed, have no trouble predicting the weather. “It’ll rain,” they say, while you look up at a cloudless blue sky in disbelief. But they noticed the little signs that point to a change in the weather - for example, spiders that build their webs in the corners of verandahs will retreat into the shelter of the eaves and take their captured food with them.
A Gypsy that lives truly free and one with the elements grows up keenly aware of these signs. Gypsies mimic nature by leaving easily overlooked signs for their fellows to show which way they have gone. They call these signs `patrin’.
They become very observant in other ways as well. It is not hard for a gypsy, basically as disinterested in the affairs of society as animals are in the affairs of men, to sniff which way the wind blows - just as animals know when we are around and plan to make a nuisance of ourselves.
A human hand can offer so much information that you may not even need to know how to read the lines. No use removing your wedding ring to fool a gypsy. Those sharp eyes will spot where it has been. They will also spot tiny calluses, scars and other marks that proclaim your profession.
Does this mean the lines in your hand have nothing to say? Oh no, because Gypsies believe that everything is connected and know that - for example - folk whose hearts rule their heads have a deep corresponding line across their palms.
If Gypsies seem to have more sixth sense than others, it is because they understand acutely how much we are part of nature, and how our story becomes written in our hands, our faces, and everything we touch.

This has also been posted at the Squidoo Gypsy Camp

The Gypsy camp was relatively quiet, with small children at nap or breast – chores completed and supper thoughts but a whisper. Lazy smoke from untended fires had replaced the lingering mists of dawn, and somewhere a faint mandolin teased the birds. It was a time for ‘wool gathering’, as they say – scarcely a moment for an encounter. Thus the stranger stood perhaps too long by the stream before being noticed.

I was instantly alert – wary, disturbed more by the fact that no forest friends had given alarm through silence, than by the half-seen figure. Tall or nay, lean or stout? This I could not discern from squint defying bands of golden light and shifting shadows of swaying firs. A leap – a prance – a fair drifting of form, and I had a better view, as if in response to my thought. An ancient song came to mind.

A cloak of simple rough homespun, and breeches of brown doe-skin,
Tied at the waste with no buckle: shoes laced up to the thigh!
For music a harp was brandished,
Lyrics from nature called,
To be playing on the wander, under the laughing sky.

I strained to define features beneath the “trav’ler’s hood” of mossy green, but caught only a glimpse of smoldering eyes. A melodic whisper echoed in my soul – not of fear or foreboding, but of forgotten joy. “I have been charged to bring this to you.” That and nothing more. A sheepskin scroll snapped against the frozen silence, to then soften and settle slowly to the grass. Old Grenben stepped forth and read the words out loud – by calling or command I do not know. Scripted in the finest hand the letters proclaimed –

THE WAY OF THE LIVING BARD

********

The space above the stump upon which the stranger had spoken
now danced with thistle-down and memories of fireflies.
My child asked, “Mother, was that a faerie or a wizard?”
I had no answer, but held her high to see the glowing words at our feet.

“Mother, was that a man or a woman?”

This I could answer, “Child – I never thought to ask.”

and the mandolin whispered once more as we sang:

The bard strummed a note and stirred a silent spring.
It touched my heart and I began to sing,
To free the music deep in everything.
Now all the earth with its secret melody
Has meaning for me forever.

…………………………………………………………

faucon of Sakin’el

le Enchanteur is excited about joining the Gypsy Camp to relax and enjoy their lifestyle. She always feels calm here and the Gypsy Chief always makes such a fuss of her. So grab your things and join us here.

Posted by Heather Blakey

Leave all your woes dire, come to the campfire,
Come to the sound of the tambourine;
Come in a red skirt, come in a gold shirt,
Come to the dance on the Gypsy Green.

Take down the barn doors, make them a dance floor,
Partner your Rom, and sweep up your Queen;
Dance by the camp fire, dance ’til your feet tire,
Dance `neath the moon on the Gypsy Green.

Tell us the old tales, tell us some new tales,
Tell us everything that you’ve done or seen;
Take us down old ways, tell of your young days,
Spin us a yarn on the Gypsy Green.

Now watch the fire die, now hear the owl cry,
Soon the first rays of morning steal over the scene;
Sleep in your caravans, dream of fair atchin tan,
All tuckered out on the Gypsy Green.

Note: atchin tan=camp place

Posted by Gail

Here are couple of resources for anyone who wants to know more about the Romanyi and their way of life:
The Patrin Web is one of the best, set up and maintined by Romany people, but this resource, lthough for role playing games, is also very well done.
The Lemurian Tribe has brought together Gypsies from all over the world, from the fiery dancers of Spain and the whimsical travellers of Ireland, to the mysterious Dom of North Africa, and the Romanyi of Europe. Lavengro, the Gypsy King, is the son of an Irish Gypsy Chief and a flamenco dancer. He is susceptible to beautiful ladies (they are all beautiful to Lavengro) and looks a bit like Johnny Depp.
One of the most popular events at the camp is a crossroads dance, when a nearby farmer is likely to see his barn doors taken off their hinges and laid down for a dance floor. Fortunately, this farmer loves a hooley as well, and can be found doing the heel and toe with the best of them.
With so many influences at work, you can stop at any campfire and enjoy Irish stew, soda bread, fiery curries, paella and Turkish Delight (Lavengro’s favourite food).

Word has come from Lavengro, the King of the Lemurian Gypsies, that they have set up camp near the City of Ladies.
The Gypsy Camp is a colourful setting for parties, celebrations and nights of song and story telling, so everyone is invited to join in. Sit around the campfire, set yourself up in one of the many caravans especially prepared for travellers, and share you tales, songs and poems. If you have any Gypsy lore to share, please add it to the archives. In the original Gypsy Camp at Blogger you can find a lot of inspiration.
Over the next few days, Lavengro and his tribe will be keeping the fires burning, the mead and cider flowing and the laughter ringing, so just follow your heart and you will find your way there.
Please come and join in the celebrations and add to the enterainment.