What does it mean to be a woman?

As morning gives way to afternoon, the air becomes still and the hot African sun beats down relentlessly. The busy daily routines of tending to the home and walking three or more miles for water are over and in the sparse shade of acacia trees are what I came to call circles of connection: groups of Maasai women with their clean shaven heads, ornate glass bead earrings and necklaces, and red, blue and yellow robes gathered together to work on their bead crafts and talk, baring their teeth and waving their hands in joy and laughter. Their bonds with one another seemed so rich and inviting, and their delight in being together so palpable that I longed to be one of them. It intrigued me that these circles of friendship and happiness existed side by side with the challenges of having little access to education and few rights as women. Maybe if I understood their language I would know what gave rise to the sense of mirth and I would also know these women’s concerns and cares.  What I do know is that when I lived with the Maasai, sometimes taking women and their sick children to remote clinics or stopping to help young girls carry their water containers in the back of my small car, I began to articulate a question that I would carry with me for many years: what does it mean to be a woman?

I would take this question with me to the United Arab Emirates, where circles of connection took on a different, yet similar form. In the privacy of their homes, my friends would take off their black hijab revealing elegant clothes, jewelry and stunning makeup, and again, the relaxed pleasure of friendship. Sometimes the gatherings turned into spontaneous dances, with children joining in. While pondering the contrast between these women’s reserved and covered public demeanor and their playful gaiety when in one another’s company in private spaces, I would wonder again about what it means to be a woman.

Now I am in snowy New England, and my neighbors have braved the weather to come over for our monthly women’s book club. First, the ritual disrobing of coats and boots at the door, and then sighs of contentment as I offer hot tea. As busy mothers who work outside and inside the home, the chance to sit and be still is a welcome break. We don’t always laugh with the same abandon as Maasai women, but we do laugh. We have yet to break into spontaneous dance, but we are joyful and earnest in our discussion of the book, our children, our families and the state of the world. Over the years we have seen each other through the loss of parents and illnesses, we have eaten copious amounts of chocolate, we have watched each other’s children grow and we have simply reveled in the opportunity to be together. As the evening draws to a close and the last goodbyes are said, I realize that being a woman means, partly, sharing the common purpose of nurturing our families and serving our communities, and being particularly skilled at building bridges of friendship in a world clamoring for authentic connection.