“I am indigenous” she said as we made our first introductions.

“Some of my students say that they have machines at home that wash their clothes and that they have hot water for showers. Me, I don’t see the point! Cold water is so refreshing!” My spanish teacher held her head high and waved her hands in the air as she said so.

She raised two sons and a daughter and was a retired public school teacher. Manuella often recounted what she prepared for dinner the night before. I learned how to soak and cook beans the Guatemalan way, while she laughed at my frustration to get my daughter not to pick her nose (reminding me that she still had to tell her 20 year old son to put away his folded laundry).

“Motherhood is about repitition” she laughed.

She held my shoulder when I cried over our seeming never ending sickness and brought me to the pharmacy to buy an electrolite drink. Which was gross, but did work. She brought my daughters homemade empanadas, bargained for me at the mercados and taught me about the Guatemalan genocide. I found her beautiful, smart and interesting, and I always had questions with me to ask before our grammar lesson. Truly, I loved our conversations about motherhood, womanhood and culture the most.

I hadn’t realized how much I craved this type of companionship from a nurturing woman. In person, in the flesh, in real time where we could see, smell and touch each other. I had come to Guatemala to study, having no idea it would turn out to be a place I’d return to year after year and continue to forge deep connections. Perhaps most importantly, I became convicted that we as wimyn must come together, in real time, to feel and learn from one another. In messy kitchens, amongst laundry piles, cranky children, hair unwashed but souls intact. Communing in spaces where we are talking, sharing stories, laughing and crying together. Where we are drinking tea, breaking bread and bringing of ourselves, as we are. I’m afraid that when we don’t hear and feel one another, we become isolated and lonely. We lose our wild natures and instincts, become sad and wonder why, become dry and overworked and desperate for something, anything that offers a shred of connection. Keeping women and especially mothers, looking at screens of curated photographs and superficial story telling deprives us of our deep need to nourish and be nourished. And it makes us unhappy in our lives.

Authentic relations are forged around the kitchen table, on the living room floor, in conversation at the local farmer’s market, during the forest hike and at the playground with children. They are done in real time. Yes, in this day and age of appearing picture perfect, it takes work to gather, to be seen.

How do we start?

Invite a woman over for tea. What begins as a one on one hang out turns into a revolution. The womyn surrounded by her circle cannot be beat, cajooled, or swayed. She is unique yet supported, loved, held and understood. Stronger together, let’s not wait for the ‘perfect time’ to be seen.