The Perfect Woman

There once was a bar in Columbus with a sign like this; maybe it's still there.  It hasn't been long ago that I drove past it and wondered why no feminists have ever defaced it.  After all, it means to depict the perfect woman in the context of thinking that women talk too much. 

I don't think that's just a cute joke.  I don't think it's merely about talk, but about a woman's place, a kind of systematic demeaning of women that is fundamental in patriarchal cultures, that is, pretty much all human societies.  Without going into the complex historical reasons for this, I will note that in the animal kingdom, sheer size and strength win.  And we are animals.  But we are also human beings and can do better than that. 

In patriarchy, women are silenced.  Are supposed to quietly serve men.  Are not supposed to have opinions. Can women think?  Should we?  What are we entitled to think about?  Should we have opinions?  Make waves, get equal pay?  Patriarchy knows the answers.

What is the opposite of the silent perfect woman serving a man?  Perhaps it is a gentle, loving man who is in no way aggressive.  What would he look like?  Not a castrati, I don't even want to think about depicting that.  I have never seen a pub sign like the above that would show a man mutilated in such a way as to make him a woman's ideal, and don't want to.  So how would I depict him?

Maybe he would look like this.....

Jesus as the good shepherd.  Maternal, long lovely hair, wearing a dress.  Okay, gown.
Or maybe the perfect man looks like this.....

The Dalai Lama. I could not quickly find a full-length portrait of him, but as you know, he too wears a dress.  Alright, gown.

As for a depiction of a perfect woman, I like the ideal of Kuan Yin, Kanzeon, Green Tara in various branches of Buddhism - the buddha of compassion. We ourselves have a statue of Jizo in our little Zen garden, who I believe is sometimes male, sometimes female, a quiet little patron saint of travelers and lost children.  Here she is, in fall color.  She wears a robe and carries a staff with little rings that jingle quietly as she walks, to let animals know she is coming and means no harm.

This is a personal issue for me, this thing about strict gender definition.  I wish I'd been taught that it was okay for a girl to be smart, to think.  I had to fight my way through a thicket of thorns on that, and to my surprise, sometimes I still do.

A moment in autumn

It is a strange moment in the year in this four-season climate. The leaves on the baby redbud are yellow; the older redbud still gives the impression of green, but a yellower green, and the seedpods that hang like beans along the limbs are dark brown, more visible; and the limbs are visible too, like thin black strokes from a technical pen.

The trees that turn orange and red just began to do that last week, and now are changing fast, whole trees lit all around their edges. They are mostly sugar maples, which tend to be shapely trees, the kind landscapers like, straight single trunks and round crowns.

One fall decades ago I was going around in a sort of brown state, and my mind must have been occupied with thoughts. I don't remember why I drove through Blacklick Park, just that I came around a bend in the road and was slammed by the sight of a huge, old maple in full glorious red-orange. I remember feeling punched in my center and gasping, the way characters in novels do. That tree woke me up for a moment.

My neighbor's tree has dropped almost all its yellowed leaves, and brown oak leaves keep blowing in our front door when I get the mail. But most of the woods in our back yard are still abundantly green, even as their branches are more visible, dark with rain. When I drive through the ravine the drooping green seems to be closing in on the road, and I think about how in another month the leaves will be fallen, the woods will be vertical strokes of trunks, and golden light will shine forth from the windows of houses that perch on top of the ravine, like ours, and are usually hidden from view.

About Jizo

This bodhissatva or "saint" in the Mahayana Buddhist tradition stands in front of our kitchen window, in a small gravel garden that conveniently came with the house. You can perhaps see that she (or he) carries a sistrum, a staff with three rings suspended on it, which jingle to warn small life forms that a harmless pilgrim is coming. Thus it is known as "the stick with a voice." She is the protector of all who journey through the physical and spiritual realms, especially children, and comforts those suffering from loss. In Japan, she is often protected by a red cape.

Our Jizo, a gift from my husband Tom, was made at Great Vow Monastery. You can read more about Jizo in Jan Chozen Bays' book, Jizo Bodhisattva: Guardian of Children, Travelers & Other Voyagers.

The flyleaf of our copy is beautifully inscribed and signed by Jan:

Lifetime after lifetime
we journey together
on the path to awakening
guided and supported by
the qualities of
Jizo Bodhissatva
within our own hearts,
minds & bodies---great love,
clear wisdom, and no fear.

It can get lonely for a Buddhist here in Ohio, so we like to have this reminder. And since we were raised Christian, and our Zen teacher is also a Jesuit priest, in our back yard we have a statue of St. Francis, a remarkably similar saint.