On Being a Woman

There comes a time in girlhood when it is no longer girlhood. This is usually called the end. Then womanhood falls thickly upon girlhood like a warm blanket, and everything changes. This is the simple way to say it -- "changes" -- but it is really more complicated than a word could say. It is the time when the small wishes in your girlish heart become more vivid and real, when a prince transforms from something you playact with your friends about into something you will cry yourself sore deep into the night about. I could try to explain it to the non-women -- try to explain the pang of beauty that will strike us in a simple song, enough to make it haunt us for months -- try to explain the glint of a jar or jewel or river and why it reminds us of the future -- try to bottle the smells of forest and sea and make you all see it through our eyes -- try to tell you why we will remember a stranger's smile and forget where we saw it, and when -- try to explain the little cry you feel inside when you watch a movie kiss -- try to explain all the things we still are just beginning to grasp, and fail. It is for the discoverer to find. Our special hearts are caches full of secrets, ready to give away any to the first offer. Secrets like twirling skirts and listening for an hour and babies and recipes and crying and everything else we hide up inside because we are taught that they are unwanted. That is why they are secrets. And no matter how much I wish I could tell you why I love sunlight and country roads so much, it would not make sense to you. Maybe, if you do not have secrets, and you have never understood a meadow, you have the better deal in the end, because you are not waiting forever to be discovered.