The Weaving Together

There are myriad joys in our travels: new sights and sounds, smells and tastes. New adventures, challenges, cultures, views on the world. Some moments, though, are just a bit hard in a prosaic way. We are two parents and a 13-year-old singleton, together for nine months solid. Like every teen, our daughter is exploring boundaries and constraints, probing for weakness. She is seeking not so much greater autonomy, it seems, as greater sovereignty.

Perhaps because I am immersed in the history of Burma, dominated by military conquest, colonialism, revolt upon separatist movement, and crushing counterinsurgency measures, I find myself framing things in military terms. She probes, conducts an exploratory feint, and makes her forays into new territory—border skirmishes ensue. Sometimes she lays in silent siege. Right now, and likely for years to come, we occasionally hit flash points that blow like landmines, unexpected and shrapnel-filled. We retreat, bloodied.

I do know we have a strong fabric of love and trust, and there are moments in which I can channel learning and hold loving kindness in the face of a teenager’s barbed response. There are moments in which I can side step my own barbed comment and the chain reaction that ensues. And, most of the time, I can reflect with compassion on the discomfort and uncertainty of the life we have created for her in our travel, as well as the privilege.

At other moments, my studies of technique, efforts at meditation, and prayers for serenity . . . they're all out the fucking window.

See for example a full-blown battle about dinner at a pop-up market not one hour after my day-long Buddhist meditation retreat at a Wat in Chiang Mai). Really? Really!?

But no matter what the day has held, almost without exception, we settle together in whatever nest we might occupy after getting ready for sleep. Brian reads his book, and I set up behind the kid in her bed with my tools in hand. And—at her request—I french-braid my daughter’s hair.

So doing, we join countless women over time and across cultures. Indeed, we draw upon millions of years of primate evolution to engage in what experts refer to as “grooming behavior.”

I comb her thick locks until they hang in a curtain down her back, gold and red and shining. And I begin a plait at the crown of her head, pulling in shanks, tucking in strands, and making them smooth. Each addition comes together like waves on the beach, building a steady rhythm, joined in a single rope that hangs down her back and grows longer each month. Once it is secured, I check my handiwork. Then she in turn pats her head appraisingly three times—top, back, rope. I am allowed one kiss at the the top of her head on approval, we fold into a hug before she settles, and the day is concluded.

In the midst of our (chosen) life of flux, we find refuge, my fierce-willed daughter and I, in this ritual. It is a tender healing, a quiet joy that we would not share if we were living our daily life in Seattle. My hands are careful, my mind is focused on this one thing. As I weave, there is a peace woven as well, whatever the day held. Words between us are few but soft, and I feel her shoulders relax. Ruffled feathers are smoothed; hair wild from the day is brought into place; a pleasing order beneath my hands. This is a matter that I can resolve cleanly. This is a service, a gift I can give to my young one, even as she strives to push herself away to adulthood. For a brief time, each day, she leans back in.