Having long hair, I would often come home after a tumultuous day navigating the Washington Elementary School playground with a bit of, what my mother called, a bird’s nest. Often tangled in hood or cap. Sometimes even zipped in the collar of my coat. Falling out of one ribbon and retied into another. Bungied, bungled and bouncing around my face. But I was never worried. She took her time. Untangling with care. Strand by strand. Story by story, of the birds that could live there. Until my blonde locks lay gently upon my shoulders.
I suppose I took it for granted. I did until the day that my friend Lisa said her mother really worked her rat’s nest hard the night before. What’s a rat’s nest, I asked. My hair, she replied, it was all snarled, you know, messed up. A rat’s nest — I was silently horrified. Is that what they called it? Not my mother. Never. She would never give me a rat. Always a bird.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, it takes strength to be gentle and kind. But how do we know, unless we are given the example, to first be gentle with ourselves?
I cried when we crossed the border into Minnesota yesterday. I did not fight the handlful of silent tears. I let myself long for the nest that wasn’t there, then cradled myself in the nest that is always with me. My mother gave me that. I will have it ever. Nesting. Gently.
