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That was my teacher speaking through me. She closed her eyes again and slept for nearly twelve hours.
The following day, I took her to the outskirts of Sibiu where there's a kind of museum of the different kinds of houses found in the region. For the first time, I'd had the pleasure of preparing her breakfast. She was more rested, less tense, and she asked me questions about gypsy culture, but never about me. She told me a little of her life. I learned that I was a grandmother! She didn't mention her husband or her adoptive parents. She said she sold land in a country far from there and that she would soon return to her work.
I explained that I could show her how to make amulets to ward off evil, but she didn't seem interested. However, when I spoke to her about the healing properties of herbs, she asked me to teach her how to recognize them. In the park where we were walking, I tried to pass on to her all the knowledge I possessed, although I was sure she'd forget everything as soon as she returned to her home country, which by then I knew was England.
"We don't possess the earth, the earth possesses us. We used to travel constantly, and everything around us was ours: the plants, the water, the landscapes through which our caravans passed. Our laws were nature's laws: the strong survived, and we, the weak, the eternal exiles, learned to hide our strength and to use it only when necessary. We don't believe that God made the universe. We believe that God is the universe and that we are contained in him, and he in us. Although..."
I stopped, then decided to go on, because it was a way of paying homage to my protector.
"...in my opinion, we should call 'him' 'goddess' or 'Mother.' Not like the woman who gives her daughter up to an orphanage, but like the Woman in all of us, who protects us when we are in danger. She will always be with us while we perform our daily tasks with love and joy, understanding that nothing is suffering, that everything is a way of praising Creation."
Athena--now I knew her name--looked across at one of the houses in the park.
"What's that? A church?"
The hours I'd spent by her side had allowed me to recover my strength. I asked if she was trying to change the subject. She thought for a moment before replying.
"No, I want to go on listening to what you have to tell me, although, according to everything I read before I came here, what you're saying isn't part of the gypsy tradition."
"My protector taught me these things. He knew things the gypsies don't know and he made the tribe take me back. And as I learned from him, I gradually became aware of the power of the Mother, I, who had rejected the blessing of being a mother."
I pointed at a small bush. "If one day your son has a fever, place him next to a young plant like this and shake its leaves. The fever will pass over into the plant. If ever you feel anxious, do the same thing."
"I'd rather you told me more about your protector."
"He taught me that in the beginning Creation was so lonely that it created someone else to talk to. Those two creatures, in an act of love, made a third person, and from then on, they multiplied by thousands and millions. You asked about the church we just saw: I don't know when it was built and I'm not interested. My temple is the park, the sky, the water in the lake, and the stream that feeds it. My people are those who share my ideas and not those I'm bound to by bonds of blood. My ritual is being with those people and celebrating everything around me. When are you thinking of going home?"
"Possibly tomorrow. I don't want to inconvenience you."
Another wound to my heart, but I could say nothing.
"No, please, stay as long as you like. I only asked because I'd like to celebrate your arrival with the others. If you agree, I can do this tonight."
She says nothing, and I understand this as a yes. Back home, I give her more food, and she explains that she needs to go to her hotel in Sibiu to fetch some clothes. By the time she returns, I have everything organized. We go to a hill to the south of the town; we sit around a fire that has just been lit; we play instruments, we sing, we dance, we tell stories. She watches but doesn't take part, although the Rom Baro told me that she was a fine dancer. For the first time in many years, I feel happy, because I've had the chance to prepare a ritual for my daughter and to celebrate with her the miracle of the two of us being together, alive and healthy and immersed in the love of the Great Mother.
Afterward, she says that she'll sleep at the hotel that night. I ask her if this is good-bye, but she says it isn't. She'll come back tomorrow.
For a whole week, my daughter and I share together the adoration of the Universe. One night, she brought a friend, making it quite clear that he was neither her boyfriend nor the father of her child. The man, who must have been ten years older than her, asked who we were worshipping in our rituals. I explained that worshipping someone means--according to my protector--placing that person outside of our world. We are not worshipping anyone or anything, we are simply communing with Creation.
"But do you pray?"
"Myself, I pray to St. Sarah, but here we are part of everything and we celebrate rather than pray."
I felt that Athena was proud of my answer, but I was really only repeating my protector's words.
"And why do this in a group, when we can all celebrate the Universe on our own?"
"Because the others are me. And I am the others."
Athena looked at me then, and I felt it was my turn to wound her heart.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said.
"Before you do, come and say good-bye to your mother."
That was the first time, in all those days, I had used the word. My voice didn't tremble, my gaze was steady, and I knew that, despite everything, standing before me was the blood of my blood, the fruit of my womb. At that moment, I was behaving like a little girl who has just found out that the world isn't full of ghosts and curses as grown-ups have taught us. It's full of love, regardless of how that love is manifested, a love that forgives our mistakes and redeems our sins.
She gave me a long embrace. Then she adjusted the veil I wear to cover my hair; I may not have had a husband, but according to gypsy tradition, I had to wear a veil because I was no longer a virgin. What would tomorrow bring me, along with the departure of the being I've always both loved and feared from a distance? I was everyone, and everyone was me and my solitude.
