Will I ever get these knots of of my hair? Was it worth it? I ask myself, for the thrill of riding on the back of a motorcycle with my long hair down, letting it dry in the wind? Of course it was worth it, I decide, as I always do. The thrill of life is worth the tangles. Of course it is. The life, the tangles, the work and the thrill; this house is disheveled and wild, but it is alive.
It was a terribly hot day for a motorcycle ride, even if I did start the ride with cool wet hair. The seat was hot, his back was hot, and his shoulders were hot, but they are still my favorite shoulders in all the world. Quickly we left the backroads, quickly he opened the throttle, and we raced toward relief from the heat.
I closed my eyes so that I could better feel the wind on my skin. Gusts came from the left and the right, some stifling, some sweet and cool. The temperatures seemed to fight each other. I breathed what was given.
The air was hot and alive. The earth has grown from spring into summer. She has put behind her the ways of the little girl- the sprouts, the playing of the fawns, the cheerful tulips. She is fully developed now, a rich and fertile woman. Summer is a woman and her embrace is warm. And my long hair flew behind me, blown by her breath.
On the side of the road stood a man with a flat tire, in a small t-shirt stretched over his belly. What did he see when we flew past him? Did he see a woman that looked a little like Summer, her hair dancing like the wheat? Did he see the sexy young couple from a few years ago, the one we still feel like, the one we still are? Or did he see a disheveled mama flying from her children, desperate for a moment’s peace?
And God played with the clouds.
I closed my eyes again, waiting for more insight, inspiration. But this time as I breathed in summer, my mouth opened slightly. The wind grabbed my lower lip and forced it down, out, exposing my bottom teeth. My mouth received the forced air, and my cheeks flapped. I wanted to smile at the silliness, but instead I let the wind continue to play, and I thought of my dog at home and the way she loves her truck rides, and her jowels flapping.
Suddenly the air gusts cool, much cooler. The sky is a wonderful gray. Already my eyes are relieved, my skin is refreshed. Suddenly, a rock strikes my cheek, then another my arm, and I realize it is only the rain. I try not to flinch, try not to recoil from the gift. But it stings, and I curl myself small, behind his back (my favorite back). Times of refreshing can be painful. I am grateful for windshields and husband-shields.
The shower was short, and my hair is dry again when we park the motorcycle.
I return to the cottage with red cheeks and tangled hair; disheveled and wild, refreshed, alive.
I write before I bother to brush.