I reach for strands of hair to weave them so they seamlessly fold into each other – creating a cohesive form of which I have the slightest vision of how it should look.
But then I sit unable to layer sections upon sections, threading above and below.
Sometimes it is because my hands are actually holding a baby, or zipping a jacket, or making a meal.
Sometimes I can’t even find the hair to grasp and hold onto. It feels invisible… images of lustrous strands that have yet to grow. How does one braid with invisible hair? Simply with woven dreams and visions close to the scalp, not even sure if they are ready to come alive.
Then of course there are all these strands that literally [thanks to life postpartum] have fallen out like a tree briskly shakes itself free from leaves. Certain structures of knowing have dissolved, and I’m navigating new territory again.
Then there are those miraculous moments when Elliot is sleeping and the kids are at school, and I have had enough sleep and am fed… and I can gather enough of myself to orient a layering, a listening, a knowing way of organizing over and under. Which lasts for a moment until it comes undone, the next thing beckoning for my attention.
Maybe this wanting of a complete braid comes at the end of a life : when all the strands have shed and reappeared again and again and with that wild head of hair one is able to orient the final masterpiece.
But also can how I find a relief in a wrapping in all that is right now? Even if only to come undone in a moment. Even if I’m only working with little wisps of hair that will continue to grow. Even if tomorrow I might want a bun instead…