The Comb Doesn’t Know What Hair Is
The other morning found my five year old daughter, post breakfast, sprawled on the carpet, playing with a comb. Digging and dragging the comb across the carpet, she was methodically, meditatively making Zen garden lines in the carpet fibers.
She most casually observed that,“the comb doesn’t know what hair is.”
It abruptly stopped my Theta wavy, muscle memorized, morning cleanup. I asked for clarification and she confirmed that, indeed, she absolutely meant that combs don’t know what they are combing; carpet or hair, they don’t care.
Huh… I repeated it to myself. Several times.
Incisive observation. As I returned to washing dishes, the imagery of her words lifted up like flash paper, their ashes floating into me as poetry and renewed self awareness.
I scrubbed dried egg from a plate and conjured an image of a tortured comb‘s existence. It struggles to overcome the void between it’s specialized and elegant form and possession of self-awareness and purpose.
Am I the comb? The new reality wrought by the pandemic has left me and presumably you struggling for new understanding, direction and purpose.
I don’t have what I had. I am not what I was. I don’t do what I did.
I don’t have answers but I’m working on it.
