There Are No Men Here Today
I am deeply grateful for the men who show up to our property at 7:30am in the morning and I am also deeply resentful of their presence. There is nothing more promising than the sound of men chainsawing down the dead cottonwood tree in our backyard, standing pale and barren for decades without care and yet, they disrupt this reverent and deeply quiet mountainside that is becoming my home. It takes every ounce of my energy to greet these men, to go outside and talk with them about the plans for our chicken coop. It’s not because they are demanding or unfair, it’s because talking with men, with the men who love to work like this, requires something inside of me that I am not used to.
So often I feel small and voiceless around them. All of a sudden, I am without language that makes senes to me. My world turns from the psychological to the logistical. My vocabulary of planets and psyche, turns to the treatment of rotting wood, the correct motor oil for chainsaws and metal sheet paneling for a roof that sometimes leaks. I am learning a new language and these men know it. They have more knowledge than I do and it’s not that that makes me uncomfortable. It’s that I spend a lot of time listening to the ideas that these men have, and they have a lot. They want to explain and talk at me, they want to announce their ideas and parade them forth, taking over projects and visions for my land and my property. It’s the arrogant assumption that makes me uncomfortable.
I love what these men can do. They took down an entire 15 foot tall bird aviary in three hours yesterday and they broke a sledge hammer getting rid of the old cement pond inside of that bird aviary. They are strong men, they are fast men, they are the men that turn their radios on and blast their music into my breakfast time men. I love these men, these men are my heroes and yet, I wish they could magically do their work like formless ghosts, being neither seen nor heard. I don’t want to ask these men to move their truck so I can pull out of the garage, I don’t want to talk with these men about their hourly rates, I don’t want to outline the plans of our property with them and I don’t really want their advice. I want to communicate solely through email and text messages never having to have a face-to-face conversation.
Every time I do have to talk with these men, I have to pull from somewhere deep inside my intestines. I have to get tall and confident, I have to get loud and clear. I cannot stand with these men feeling tender and vulnerable. It won’t work. They will stampede me, they will conquer something inside of me. I have to put my clothes on and get out of the sun. I have to get down to business. I have to be serious and firm. I have to talk about pricing and square footage.
On the days when I’m feeling especially tender, I have to ask my wife to go to the men, to talk to the men. Some days I just can’t do it. I can’t pull myself up, I can’t make myself speak. I only want silence and quiet, music and the soft line of a melody forming in my head. This is a woman’s way. I need my softness to lay undisturbed. I will put a sign up, “Vulnerability at Work, Quiet Please”.
Every day I get into my Work, I sit in my heart. I have to be there as a therapist, I have to be there as an astrologer. I have to let myself feel so I can do my work. It’s where I prefer to live. I don’t necessarily want to talk about chicken coops, I just want to go to the coop and tend to the chickens. I want to silently pick up their eggs and clean their nesting boxes. I want to hear their tiny voices as I wake up in the morning. There is something soft being born up here on this mountainside and I am reminded that it is something to be protected.
Some days are easier for me than others. Some days I don’t mind when the men watch me walk to my car, some days I don’t mind asking them about their wives and their children. But every day I mind having things explained to me. I hate being sat down and lectured to about things, even if I don’t know about these things. There is a difference between teaching and lecturing. Often times, these men assume that I have no prior knowledge about anything ever in the world. I have never lived outside an urban center, I have never used a hammer and I don’t know the difference between propane and gas dryers. I definitely can’t chop wood and I may not know what a GFI is. (Are you googling GFI now? Do it. Don’t be shy) But the thing is, I used to play with Erector Sets when I was a kid. I have known the difference between a Phillips and a Flathead screwdriver for at least five years now. I do know some things. I can use an axe and I do it while wearing a flannel shirt. I don’t want to be talked down to. I want to be collaborated with, connected with and yes, I will most likely ask you how you are feeling even if you are a man on my property with a back hoe. It’s just how I roll.
If there is a man out there lecturing, I guarantee you there is a woman out there nodding her head and listening, and then going away behind closed doors and hatching her real plans — her midnight oil plans. Her lullaby plans. Her cocoon plans. The plans that come from the soul place that lives in the quiet of the morning hours — where no one else can touch them. The plans that come when she’s sitting naked in the sun and sipping tea. I guarantee you you will have to get very quiet to hear those plans and listen close. You will have to shut your mouth to hear the magic plans of these women. We don’t have to get louder and stronger, you have to get quieter and softer. You have to earn this place at the woman’s table. This is where visions are born. This is where new eras rise up. I don’t feel like talking today and I don’t feel like listening either. I feel like dreaming quietly and sketching out the plan for my new bedroom in colored pencils. Listen to me first. Listen to the song, listen to the sound and then you can get your hammer out and bring it to life. I’m tired of hearing about what you know and what you’ve researched. You are not my enemy but I’m not sure we’re friends yet. You haven’t learned how to listen yet and I’m not going to shout any more.
I am not weak and afraid if I don’t feel like talking today. If I don’t come out to greet you, know that it’s only because I don’t want to. I simply do not have the energy for it today and I cannot muster it up from within some secret place in my insides. Sundays are my favorite days because men usually don’t come on Sundays. They are my holy and quiet days. They are my days when there is only silence and the big stump that remains from the dead cottonwood tree. There are no motors and no engines. There are no shouting voices and no problems to be tended to. There is only the sound of thawing ice as the winter lets go and the spring starts to wake up. I am home and it is quiet. There are no men here today.
