The Heart Of A Woman

“For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” - Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

“A woman is like a tea-bag – you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water.”
- Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962)

“A woman’s whole life is a history of the affections.” - Washington Irving (1783-1859)


HOW does one fathom what is inside the heart of a woman? Does one dare venture into the unknown? Or try to make sense out of something incomprehensible?

“Woman, behold thy Son,” the dying Christ uttered from the Cross, virtually placing the weight of the world upon the shoulders of one fragile being. “Frailty, thy name is woman,” Shakespeare exclaimed in Hamlet, practically declaring the specie feeble and defenseless.

Strong or weak, any which way one perceives her to be, there couldn’t be a more paradoxical entity. She is the embodiment of everything the opposite sex is not, and perhaps much more. She can make you or break you, turn your day into a heaven or a hell, lift you to dizzying heights or bring you to your knees, inspire you or bewilder you, stir you up or stare you down, twist you around her little finger or firmly put you where she wants you to be.

But then again, when she allows you to enter her world, she is the personification of docility - acquiescent to temptation, susceptible to despair, vulnerable to aggression, prone to hostility. She will take all physical brutality, mental anguish or verbal cruelty in quiet, defiant tears. And when she does get hurt, the scars are deep; the wounds take long to heal.

Yet, she can only receive so much abuse. The moment she decides she’s had enough, she’ll lick her cuts and roar like an injured tiger; she’ll bare her fangs and strike like a demented avenger. She can inflict the deepest hack, pierce through the thickest skull, and tear down the most impregnable ramparts with the force of a waterfall raging through the rapids.

What is inside the heart of a woman? A history of the affections, indeed, and a cascade of emotions unraveling at will. Mother, wife, sister, breadwinner; lover, mistress, soul mate, friend – all rolled into one enigmatic bundle of spirit and spunk. Sinner, saint, martyr, victim; object of admiration, respect and wonder, as well as of envy, lust and anger --- a hundred different inscrutable things within the measure of a day.

She carries burdens and endures hardships that a man of lesser substance will find unbearable, yet she holds a vast reservoir of joy and lightness that infects those who surround her. She doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, absolutely not, and will toil her way towards solving a problem when no one else can. She is fiercely loyal to those who have earned her trust, and blames no one for the mistakes of her own making.

She smiles when she wants to cry and cries when she is happy. She sings when she is down in the dumps and shrieks in delight over little things that take her fancy. She laughs when she needs to spill her guts out and livens up the loneliest soul she meets along the way.

She fights back tears when the going gets tough, and leans on her own fortitude when her world is about to crumble. She may be pushed to the edge by the weight of all her fears but she manages, each time, to thrust herself right back to the center of her galaxy – determined, more than ever, to realize her dreams and achieve her goals.

Inside the heart of a woman is an immense capacity for giving and forgiving.

She gives so that her loved ones can have, even when there is none for her. She gives so much of herself, to the extent of being oblivious to her own wellbeing, expecting nothing in return. She gives until it hurts and there is no strength left to wash away the soreness in her jaded consciousness.

She forgives errant offspring, truant lovers, untrue friends. She forgives little indiscretions, intermittent slips of the tongue, and occasional lapses in judgment. She forgives - and tries so hard to forget – unforgivable transgressions and invasions to her space in the mold of deception, unfaithfulness, dishonesty, or treachery --- charging it all to lessons learned, experience gained, wisdom earned.

She suffers in silence, often in mute desperation, the persecution of adversaries and the loss of kin or relationships. Losing a partner by death or circumstance can drive anyone to wit’s end, but she copes rather well – mostly with a serenity that is amazing in its alacrity. Her opponents can assault her with all their might, but she will just hold out the other cheek and walk away – unbowed, unsullied, unscathed.

When she puts her mind on to something, she perseveres without letup; against all odds, if need be, come hell or high water. She gets things done without too much fuss, without wasting too much time; exerting not the least bit of effort whatever the outcome may be. She takes pride in a child’s achievement or a friend’s milestone, tripping the light fantastic with them and cheering them on to greater heights.

She does not easily let go of things that she treasures, even if they are not worth a fool’s ransom, and values every gift that she receives no matter how inconsequential. She takes it upon herself to make life easier for those she holds dear – cleaning toilets and ovens, paying for debts she doesn’t owe, talking the walk, walking the talk. She grieves at funerals, rejoices at weddings; hankers for love’s labors lost, and takes refuge in the freedom and solace of sleep.

Deep in the heart of a woman lay myriad secrets of the universe. Cherry blossoms abloom in springtime. The shadow of a smile reflected in a stream. The rock of Gibraltar conquered by no enemy. The moon over Venus and Mars. Music’s universal language. Poetry’s everlasting Muse.

While hers is the hand that rules the world, having rocked the cradle and nourished the womb; her heart, decidedly, is never ever out of love. It is always full to overflowing, like a river that surges to the sea when it swells too much for its own good. It keeps the earth revolving, like a wheel that has no ending or beginning. It emits warmth and nurturing, like a rainbow that lights up the sky after a sprinkle.

The heart of a woman feels a lifetime of pain, but wouldn’t willfully inflict it on another. It can bend, but never really break; stumble, but never actually fall to the gutter. It is strong, but not truly that invincible; for it aches passionately and craves for the same kind of love it gives away.