For Wise Women

            At  friend’s house the other afternoon, I picked up an amazing book from her end table: Wise Women: A Celebration of Their Insights, Courage, and Beauty by Joyce Tenneson. It’s a compilation of her photographic portraits of 80 women ages 65-100 annotated with their personal comments on aging. This work is thought provoking, revelatory, humbling and inspiring. I could only spend a few minutes with the book as my friend was in a rush. I decided within a very few pages I needed my own copy to peruse at my leisure as I slowly process its impact on me.

It’s the second time a book about women and their attitudes has gotten under my skin.

A dozen or so years ago, I read Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. I copied a few lines from page 33 that piqued me at the time. They still bother me because they were so not like me, yet they are like so many, many woman that I know:

"I'm always taken by how deeply women like to dig in the earth. They plant bulbs for the spring. They poke blackened fingers into mucky soil, transplanting sharp-smelling tomato plants. I think they are digging down to the two-million-year-old woman. They are looking for her toes and her paws. They want her for a present to themselves, for with her they feel of a piece and at peace."

Being the daughter one amazingly wise woman, the sister of another one and the granddaughter of two more, I long ago realized that women know secrets, not those personal stories that we share with other living humans, but those timeless, ethereal yet visceral truths that separate female from male.  For much of my life I have had moments when I felt stupid beyond belief because this secret knowledge seemed to be missing from me - making me feel more male than female. I do not care about growing plants or dirt digging or past searching. I am enamored of the here and now. I do not delve into myself much; in many instances I am rather shallow in the ego-centric department. This used to make me feel occasionally inept. I concluded that it had to do with my spinsterhood and not with my femininity – however, I was unwilling to experience childbirth just to assuage my infrequent bursts of “What the hell’s wrong with me?” 

That all changed when a former student asked me to be the focus of her Educational Psychology research paper about effective teaching. During 13 hours of answering the questionnaires and responding to her interview questions, I was compelled to take an investigative look at me, and what makes me tick. I realized that I did possess that the “dirt growing, inner-self searching” core of woman-kind. I nurtured my students as pseudo-children, taking pride in their accomplishments and feeling angst in their failures.

I thought about the women who ran with wolves as I skimmed Tenneson’s book while waiting for my friend.  As a “wise woman,” how would want I want the world to see me? That’s easy - sitting at my desk grading papers or planning lessons. 

What would I wear? Also easy: make-up. Quit laughing. I loathe make-up. I know it makes me look better, but I just hate taking those few extra minutes when I could be sleeping or reading or drinking a Diet Coke. 

What wisdom would I impart?  “Do not ever consider being a teacher unless you possess equal amounts of humor, patience, creativity, perseverance and curiosity.”

In this season of giving – recognize a wise woman in your life and let her know you appreciate her. Especially if that wise woman is yourself!