Creative rituals:
recent haircuts, unaccompanied seasons, and death anniversaries
Two big things have happened as of late: I’ve read the most fabulous fiction of my life (Greta & Valdin by Rebecca K Reilly) and given myself a significant haircut. There is much to be drawn from these substantial events, but here is what resonates with me today: I currently live alone, it’s actually been a season of increased solitude. I feel more lonely these days, it is odd not having someone to come home to. The balance of recluse does pair nicely with the social implications of my day job, though there are moments in the quiet where I am up against melancholy. The acceptance of this feeling is not immediate, but it happens slowly and with repetition. A ritual to be trusted.
Two Saturdays ago, I cut my hair. It was frustrating me, becoming a variety of lengths that I could not adequately control. I have my late grandmother’s hair, well the majority of her features altogether. We differed in personality and perception of our similar hair. For a woman with ruthless confidence, I witnessed her hair experience silence, likely a cause of the cruel bullying she endured as a child around it. At the turn of puberty, my hair went from wavy to curly. While I embodied a sense of pride in being like my grandmother, I knew I wanted to be different here. I aimed to embrace my natural hair and celebrate it. Despite the monstrous childhood haircuts, I was lucky enough to find my groove in middle/ high school, a time in life frequently known to have grooves up for grabs. During my undergraduate tenure, many significant revelations occurred. One of the most profound ones being the discovery of a hair stylist that knew how to style my hair. Some folks heroize politicians or teachers or prominent religious figures in their lives: For me, it was this hair stylist.
Last week, the 2nd anniversary of my grandmother’s death passed while I was getting used to this new haircut. The haircut that reignited our shared appearance. When this idea arose two weeks ago, the notion that I could re-invite some connection to my grandmother and her nearing death anniversary did not. I like it better that way. It reminds me how coincidences sometimes resonate via unanticipated measures. Because I live alone, I was not privy to the immediate perception of others’ opinions and I didn’t have plans that weekend with friends. Video calls and pictures would offer some sense of familiarity with my new look, but nothing like the 360 degree depth perception of seeing someone in real time. This style has massively changed me, superficially of course. As I was colluding with myself, gathering a consensus about this happening, I went for a long walk on a lovely path near my house. It was partly cloudy, and the weather was pleasant. I slept on the decision (both literally and figuratively), before making additional adjustments. This was my younger sister’s idea, and she always has the best ones. After some additional layering and encouragement from her, I began to embrace it. As the week went on, my curls adjusted and we all settled into the newness. My acceptance of this decision didn’t come immediately. This was a reckoning of sorts seeing that my hair was altered on a whim with a dash of hope. It was slow and measured, kind of like love. Even with the gap between decision and acceptance, there was no larger theme of discontent, self-loathing or disappointment in my decision. The emotionality I felt when my younger self endured a change in appearance did not occur. I was balanced. I was okay. I was unsure if I liked it, but I saw the move as pragmatic just as much as an adventure, so even self-approval was not a prerequisite in the ranking of the decision. It would become a lovely bonus.
On the first anniversary of my grandmother’s death, I was abroad, traveling from the mountains to the sea. Crying tears in the passenger seat, I felt overcome by the sense of change in her absence. I did not cry this year. I attended a beautiful wedding and enjoyed the company of new family. Relationships, not set out to replace, but to add to the construction of life as it is now. I found comfort and joy in her memory more so than sadness. I don’t know why. Impermanence is whimsical and a bit folly. The rhyme to the reason isn’t always apparent and I’m not so sure it needs to be. I’m constantly reminded by the internet experts to disallow my feelings from taking over, though I try to let them consume me for a little while each weekend. It’s a release of liberation, much like cutting my own hair. What started as safety measures during the pandemic has now become a ritual of creative expression, and unexpectedly, a way to connect with my late grandmother.
In the weeks after her death, I wrote poetry to process the shock that grief carries. From my processing arose a piece I am most fond of:
green echo
A murmur fills the ear in hues of honest green where candor gleans.
Strokes of whimsy muddle rigidity clouding the tidy of concoction’s tether, floating on fluidity’s feather.
This note of near pulses the ear to wonder about crafting the next letter; a correspondence penned in frequency to mother love, catching her up on happenings thereof.
These writings will ring differently however, distinct in tone and content weathered.
Mother love so adored by the child she bore is set to receive news thought to disturb settled scores.
She’ll come to know green echo, and how the sound has accompanied her kin through dogma’s fallacy, blowing inquisitive winds.
Disclosing the exact moment when green echo first chimed, mother love imagines an intuitive dance to a longing rhyme.
Though that won’t be the parcel most privy to prickle tough skin for tenderness tickles wherein:
Green echo has hummed hymns sung to soothe, affirming what mother love always knew.
Mother love and green echo are a pair understood by one another, despite the difference they discovered within themselves when facing broader expectations of society. Mother love is my late grandmother, Mamó, who found a kinship and companionship in me I cannot quite put into words. It is a friendship I call on often, when I am enthralled with remembering or feeling lost inside expectations I have yet to meet. This piece, call it a story or a poem, is accompanied by other writings about her that I am still figuring out how to share. I want to share them, to remember her and pay respect to creativity as a grief practice. I cannot say for sure how these pieces will be shared. I welcome thoughts and ideas, reader!
I know, I know, I’ve been writing about some very serious things lately. This writer’s tone is a bit different, perhaps more airy (call me complex). I admit that I am still figuring out what this publication is and what it will be. Your readership is part of the experiment. Thank you for reading! I hope you achieve less this weekend :)
Really thoughtful metaphors in this piece Kylee! Thanks so much for sharing.