Where are all the women? I wondered.
In a recent inner work process, I could feel with all my being that I am my own woman. And I said it out loud. I am my own woman. Try that, see how it feels: I am my own woman./ I am my own man.
When I moved into the small Romanian mountain village where I lived for about a year and a half, I was surprised there were rarely any women to be seen. Neither in the narrow streets, nor in the gardens, in doorways or at windows.
Men, on the other hand, were visible. They came to our fence to ask questions. They met to drink and chat in front of the store, they drove their cars, they took walks in the forest, they did the shopping.
It’s not that there were no women in the village. There were.
But they lived mostly behind closed doors.
If you saw the men wearing clean clothes, it was because their women did their job. They washed, they ironed, they patched, repaired, picked up, tidied, told them to put on a fresh shirt, to change their socks and to come back home before long. To remember to take their pills. To drink less. To make the fire. To have one more plate of food. To buy some bread. To chop some wood. To kill the neighbours’ affectionate cat that keeps coming into their yard.
Their women…
I only learnt the names of few of them.
Those women wearing their houses in all seasons.
What is it that you choose to wear every day?
What are you investing yourself into?
Whose woman/ man are you?
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