Woman Enough?

"I may not be the most conventional woman, but I will be my own." –Jo March

Setting the Table: At Present

Like most things, food tastes better when accompanied by music. If you need a break from conversation or want to block out the noise around you, put in your headphones and listen to the playlist linked above.

---

We, as a society, have watched the answers to this question shift over time. With the definitions of womanhood and femininity ebbing and flowing with each new wave of the cultural tide, we begrudgingly don our polka-dotted swimmies and squeeze ourselves into the newest, shiniest, most marketable version of a woman. Yet we women, ever participants in this remodeling, remain quite skilled at mapping out definitions of all that a woman should be, holding ourselves–and often others–to expectations we come to resent. We are experts at identifying faults, analyzing facts, and verbalizing futures. We are quick, we are keen, we are quite frightening–staring at one another as if daring her to lie on the sidewalk, outline her in chalk, and circle the imperfections she tries so desperately to hide. But then, moments later, we’re hosting an unforgettable party, complete with gabbing and championing and joy-fueled chaos.

Nothing welcomes the conversation of womanhood quite like the 1994 film Little Women. A long-standing Christmas tradition in our household, watching the movie inspired by Louisa May Alcott’s novel is always the catalyst for a week’s worth of line-reciting, sentimentality, and arguing over who is who. With four Rhodes girls, the application of March sister to Rhodes sister is always a push-and-pull of sorts. Which of us is Jo? Amy? Meg, or Beth? Who feels like the spoiled youngest? Who dies?

While we like to claim to be all of one or all of another, each sister is a prism of what womanhood is. Girlhood, motherhood, singlehood, wifehood– all express such a significant portrait of what it is to be a woman, to simply exist within her own skin. Just as the March sisters embody these varied facets, so too do we, navigating the fluidity of roles and identities, finding ourselves in the spaces between.

“We'll all grow up someday, Meg; we might as well know what we want.” –Amy March

A woman. Knowing what she wants and doing what is necessary to get it. The pinning down of dreams and desires, the strategic sewing of visions into futures, like flowers onto pockets–such is womanhood. Manicured hands reaching out and taking hold of great expectations, with a steely refusal to let go. She is blunt, she is brave. She is cunning, manipulating the world around her to fulfill the goals her younger self scrawled in the margins of her textbooks. To herself, she is the most important person. Aware of her value, her worth. Understanding that she is the architect of her own universe and the illustrator of her destiny. She is prowess and compelling, dynamic and acute. She is completely and utterly woman.

“I know I shall be homesick for you even in Heaven.” –Beth March

A woman. The keeper of all things sacred. Preserving mementos and holding space for remembrance, reflection, and retelling. The instigator of tenderness, forever reminding others of the bittersweet passage of time. Homebase and heartbeat of it all. The one who listens, who kisses cheeks and braids hair and is unafraid of tears. She welcomes silence and is generous in sharing the space she occupies. She, too, is brave, willing to accept the hard things alongside the good, willing to see the underbelly of life and seek to medicate it. Somewhat unsure, but altogether unafraid to roll up her sleeves and dig in. She is considerate and profound, sensitive and subtle. She is so marvelously woman.

“I like good strong words that mean something.” –Jo March

A woman. Messy and untempered and completely untamed. Skinned knees, fallen curls, stained flannels. A storm of emotion and a quick-witted tongue. A stubborn will to hold on to that which she holds dear, and just as stubbornly refuse what she doesn’t. Forever summoning every ounce of strength to set out and discover her purpose. The aching desire to do so much good in this world, yet feeling so incapable in the presence of perfection. This, too, is femininity– the contempt for coddling, the incapacity for insincerity, the distaste for fancy dressing. She prefers the raw, unfiltered versions of others just as she is herself. She is all fight, all pluck and fortitude and determination. She is, without a doubt, woman.

“I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won’t any more, if I can help it.” –Meg March

A woman. Soft, virtuous, holy. Able to meet the standards set before her, rising to the occasion and then some. She possesses a sixth sense, the ability to identify what is missing and fill in the gap with ribbons and compliments and homemade peach preserves. Responsibility is her calling, but care is at her core. Beneath her buttoned-up composure lies a heart forever torn between her desires and her duty. A woman who sacrifices because she knows that she should, but wishes she did not have to. This does not make her counterfeit but complex–the stunning dichotomy of a woman. This intricacy, integrity, and ultimate chosen modesty is sanctified and divine. She, too, is most certainly woman.

Womanhood– with its timeless significance, aged affection, and well-worn tenderness. A kaleidoscope of both/ands. Womanhood is gray-haired and knowing, as much as it is fresh-faced and curious. Femininity is both Nuuly subscriptions and thrifted jeans. A welling up of grand emotions and the silence of stoicism. Unkempt and dutifully put-together. Sacrificial and selfish. Smelling of vanilla and sandalwood; smelling of dirt and pine. Undeniably intense; divinely mild. Both the anchor and the balloon. Scarred, dimpled, smooth, textured. Nurturing and adventuring and working and creating and dancing and laughing and loving and loving and loving and loving. Womanhood is the striking convergence of it all.

There are so many women I not only aspire to be like but cherish as lifelong companions. Recently, I have found myself marveling at the ways in which womanhood has fleshed itself out in all our lives. Although some pathways bear likeness, most do not. And yet, this vast endeavor of womanhood, in all its forms, is so completely entirely absolutely woman enough.

In this, I find endless pride and admiration for each and every one of you.

Until next lunch date,

Chloe