Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Night Song

After fifty years of skirmishing with my hair, we come to terms; it will behave if I don’t unduly impose my will on its free spirit. My mane accepts a moderate haircut, one length, slightly above my shoulders; this allows the freedom to fly unhindered in dreams and reveals my face in the daylight. We have tried longer tresses, catering to my desire to have a braid meandering down my back. While there was no hirsute rebellion about being plaited each night, for both my hair and I fretted about being entangled in a dream state, there came the afternoon I clearly heard, “Cut me.”

This time, instead of returning to the cropped, boyish styles that I usually wear after a period of long hair, I try shoulder length—most days worn with two side combs winging my hair back from my face (almost a 1940s look) or unceremoniously gathered together with a rubber band when my neck is hot. Today, I realize that I can still draw my hair up into a tight, twisted bun—for those days at work when I want to subtly announce, "Don’t mess with me."

Now, I find a certain ease in dreams with a brush of hair crooning just over my shoulders; anchored but free.

night breeze
through the wisteria
the wind chimes

(c) 2007, Beverly Tift
Haibun Today

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Looking at Faces

I find myself looking at older women, those who are around my age 50+ coasting towards 60 and older. Wondering what their thoughts and dreams were, and now are. Are they like me full of angst, longing for the impossible, wondering is this all? We strive for what? Lovers who disappoint or disappear; children who are grown with their own problems and families; careers or jobs that, when all is said and done, are just another way to fill time. This thing called time that keeps intolerably moving towards . . .not the dreams we once had.

Occasionally, I see a serene face, but not often. And sometimes, when our glances meet, I see a sad face as our haunted eyes slide past each other. Is she as aware as I am--of what we momentarily revealed? Most times, it is the false faces that I see, carefully blank, hiding behind a facade of nothing--the older woman that knows she is invisible.

The saddest are the elder women, late 60's, 70s working as baggers in supermarkets and behind fast-food counters. Our tribal elders, their life experiences wasted because they are not needed or cared for with the dissipation of our extended families. These women, with the tired eyes, have no facades left--shattered disillusion is lined on their countenances, heavy on bowed shoulders and always, always behind their fleeting smiles.