A Woman Lost and Found

It is funny, you know, but as I was standing at my kitchen sink the other day feeling anger and frustration over some petty thing, I began thinking about the last time I baked bread. I forget the type of bread that it was, but I remember the smell. I remember how the aroma drifted from room to room, searching you out, catching your entire being, and wrapping it in the smell. The smell of bread baking always meant that I was home and that I was angry.

As a young woman, I was coached by my mother and her contemporaries to believe that no matter what it was about or who was at fault, a young lady, never, ever expressed negative emotions. Many things were forbidden in my younger days. All the really great things, you know, like telling someone what you really thought, or throwing a temper tantrum, were not acceptable character traits for a young lady. Along with these taboos, a young woman was subtly taught that men were perfect, men were brilliant. Women were not capable of doing anything other than having children and running a household. Men went to college to be somebody and do great things. Women went to college to get a husband…preferably a doctor.

Fortunately, I did not completely tumble into this deep chasm of ignorance. I teetered on the brink. I partook of the forbidden things. I had a temper. I was difficult. I did not go to college. I found a husband on my own. A cool guy in a ’55 Chevy. During our early married years, I allowed the fantasy to perpetuate that he was the brilliant one. (He did not finish high school.) I finished my senior year with a young son on one arm, a home to keep, a part-time job, and a husband to dote on. I was not intelligent enough to make decisions about our future, but I was ‘bright enough’ to take care of these few simple things.

As I began to mature into my early twenties, I felt that something was wrong, I just didn’t know what it was. I was angry. I was resentful. I could look and see the good things in the world and wonder where they were for us. I worked hard at my job, worked hard at home with my children. I worked harder at keeping my husband happy. I became angrier. I baked bread more often. The more I baked, the happier my husband seemed. He seemed to savor my baking days as much as he savored his time away from home.

In reality, baking bread is a mindless act. It doesn’t take much intelligence or effort to measure, mix, and set to rise the basic ingredients. It doesn’t take much more to knead the dough. One odd thing about bread, the more you knead, the better the loaf. If I were particularly angry, I would bake French bread. This dough required much kneading. It was a ‘tough loaf’ to create. I won blue ribbons for this bread. With all this baking, my husband did not realize that for me this was an exercise in futility. While it allowed me to displace my anger, it also served to nourish him. It allowed him to ‘live another day’ to make me angry, to bake more bread.

There is usually a climactic moment in your life that wakes you up, shakes you up, or tears you down. For me, that moment came during my late twenties. By this time, we had three children. I worked full time outside the home, managed the home, orchestrated our children in their daily activities, and took absolute care of my husband. This prince of princes lacked for nothing. From the time he came home from work until he left the next morning, he did nothing he did not want to do. Struggling financially, I felt our only way out of this morass of poverty was education, I strongly believed that with an education we could do more than survive. We could have a future. I also believed that the perfect job for me would be teaching, allowing me daily contact with our children. They would not be left with substitute mothers. All that stood in my was a husband and four years of college.

While I do not remember the words of the arguments, I’ll never forget his tone and my reaction. He strongly felt that furthering my education was not necessary. I had to remain outwardly less educated than he. As this argument ran its course over several weeks, I continued baking. I do not remember what made me insist on going to college. There was nothing about me that would cause me to rebel in this manner.

A decision was finally reached. I would be ‘allowed’ to go to college. I would be ‘allowed’ to get an education. Things must remain the same at home. For a while, things did. I rose early, baked bread, fed the family, packed lunches, cleaned house, went to classes, worked full-time, came home prepared supper, cleaned house, took care of the children, and doted on my husband. Study time did not begin until 11:00 pm and would last several hours. Angry still, I learned to endure. My anger was the leavening for my endurance. For a time, this was not bad. I was still a lost woman, I was still baking bread, but I was waking up. I was on the path of becoming.

There were many components on this path that helped. Courses such as assertiveness training and psychology, having strangers telling me that I had a brain and could use it for something over than measuring flour and water helped. The more I learned, the less and less I baked bread.

What happened to this woman? Unexpectedly, I found a whole new life on my own, divorced, somewhere between the bleached, refined flour and the robust, full-bodied whole wheat. I found a voice. I found myself. I found no anger left within me. I found no need to bake bread.

I became a Woman of the Lost and Found.