You see, I bought into the cultural programming around that
word, programming, which I would like to add, that had nothing to do with my
mother. I watched TV, read books, listened to songs, and read magazines that
all characterized homemakers as some throw-back caricature of the 1950’s,
before feminism, before women’s rights. I truly believed that if I wanted to do
right by womankind that I had to fight against the marginalization that was the
only fate that awaited women who accepted that roll. To be a whole and happy
person I had to do something else, anything else. I believed that the home was
the place for women who just weren’t smart enough or talented enough to cut it
in the ‘real world’. Boy howdy, was I wrong.
When my daughter was born, I realized that I didn’t want to
miss her childhood. I wanted to be a part of her world, and I wanted to give
her the connection to her family that my mother worked so hard to give me. So I
stayed home. I stayed home and threw myself into the June Cleaver stereotype with
a vengeance. I was smart, I was educated, I was talented, so surely I could do
this perfectly. After all, women had been doing this instead of really living
their lives for millennia, right? How hard could this possibly be?
I had a nervous breakdown when Susan was 6 months old. Turns
out it’s pretty hard. I just couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t keep my baby
perfectly happy, and my house perfectly clean. I could not get dinner on the
table every night without fail, and greet my husband smiling at the door
perfectly groomed and dressed every evening. To my surprise and delight, Shawn
greeted this news (shouted at him at the time) with relief. “Good.” he said, “It’s
about time.”
“What on earth does he mean by that?” I wondered. To add
fire to this internal conflict, I felt empty, without pride or purpose. I spent
my life in struggle every day, only to stand still. I yearned for release. In
my despair, I did what I should have done in the first place. I reached out to
my womenfolk, my mother, my aunt, my grandmothers, my friends, all of the
wonderfully wise women who had seen to my survival and upbringing. I asked for
advice. I am absolutely sure that in some quarters my coming to my senses about
my inability to do everything on my own was met with arms and voices raised in
thanks. In short, I had not just been driving myself crazy.
My mother gave me the best advice I have ever received in my
whole life. “Operate from a place of love.” Because you see, that which we
build from pride only ever falls down, but that which we build from love
endures forever. I had approached my home, my marriage, and my mothering from a
place of pride. “Surely I can do better than all of those who have come before
me, because this cannot possible take more skill than I can acquire in a
weekend.” I thought. Like I said, boy howdy was I wrong, and it was the
beginning of a very long road for me.
Now 76 days into our farming adventure I am re-learning
skills that it took my great-grandmother a lifetime to earn. How to tell when
chickens are too cold or too hot, how to herd ducks, how to build a stone
fireplace. I am quite literally learning how to chop wood and carry water, and I
am loving every minute of it. My life is full and happy. Why, you might ask?
Because I am a homemaker. That’s right, I said it. I am a homemaker. Because
you see, I’ve made my peace with that word, it’s what I do. I make home. I make
this place a home to the creatures that live here (sometimes quite literally),
be they humans or animals. And you know what? It’s a vital function. My family
simply can’t do without me. I ensure that every being in my care has its basic
needs met, be it safety, food, shelter, clothes, water, or love. And for the
first time in my life, I feel a great peace in that knowledge. I need not be
perfect, I need not have all the answers. We are learning together, all of us.
We are learning what it means to live as human beings as surely as the
ducklings in our care are learning how to be ducks, and in both cases the
process is nothing less than miraculous. In the meantime, I will facilitate
that process, because that is what it means to be a homemaker. I facilitate the
process of life. That’s a pretty big job, and it’s one that society has been
pretty derisive of lately. It is not for the stupid, or the faint of heart. It
takes every ounce of my intelligence, experience, endurance, and courage to do
my job. Yesterday I put my body between my child and a hungry black bear. My
mother was standing right next to me. Today I’m researching and engineering a
way to keep the bear out of the compost pile, and thus hopefully, out of the
yard. These are things that my great-grandparents knew, and we, in our
ignorance, have thrown away. We believed that we knew better. We believed that
the only education worth having came out of a school, out of a book. We
believed that our grandmothers and great-grandmothers and
great-great-grandmothers wasted their lives. Boy howdy, were we wrong.
Rachel, you have put it so beautifully. Thank you for saying this.
ReplyDeleteRachel, such a great post! I too feel that I am re-learning all of these important skills that were so foolishly trivialized in our culture's quest to "modernize." I am really enjoying reading about your journey and insights!
ReplyDeleteThanks ladies, this one came straight from the heart.
ReplyDelete