Wise women, since the beginning of time, have known that there is a deep, secret, and sensual part of a woman that should never be shared — not with anyone, not her partner, lover, dearest friend, or even her cat (ok, well, maybe her cat.) In this guarded treasure box may lie past experiences, present passions, or future dreams. Not everything needs to be posted on Instagram.
Powerful women from Eve to Helen of Troy to women whose sex tapes have leaked know this. If you show all your cards, you may ultimately bear the blame.
This secret stash, however, is not filled with misadventure and misfortune, as in Pandora’s Box (although this may be another example of women getting the blame.) Instead, it is an emergency reserve, the emotional equivalent of a cellar filled with bottled water, batteries, and cans of line-caught tuna. This is where a woman finds comfort in her own skin, contentment at being alone, and resolution in her personal interests and pleasure. One’s own company should be a balm, not an irritant.
I have known women who may not have made it into a Victoria’s Secret catalog lineup but who have reserved a sacred place to nurture their soul, emitting a Mona Lisa smile that is an elixir to men.
This is not to be confused with advice to women on how to be mysterious, such as in my mother’s generation, which suggested surprising their husbands by being naked and wrapped in saran wrap under the dining room table when they got home (true story). Or the woman told to dress up and go to the mall and come home late with no explanation, causing her husband to not take her for granted. Neither of these experiences seems particularly soul-lifting. The mystery must be authentic to keep its power.
Some of the mystery may be innate since men’s “private parts” are on the outside and women’s on the inside. I often see so-called balls hanging off pick-up trucks, but I have yet to see a set of fuzzy ovaries slung on a woman’s SUV mirror.
In Virginia Woolf’s famous “A Room of Her Own,” the room, both physical and metaphorical, is necessary for a woman to realize her creative potential. It is meant to house precious things and protect them from outside intrusion. This could range from writing to painting to meditation, full moon rituals, or learning aromatherapy or French.
Since a very young age, I have cultivated a private space, whether it was within my Barbie’s camper where robin’s eggs or Bonne Bell perfume might be kept or my fully adult lair complete with chinoiserie wall coverings, Egyptian Blue Lotus oil, candelabras, tarot cards, and Anaïs Nin diaries.
While this mystery can be a boon to a good relationship it has also been a protection from a bad one. I adore strong men who are defined by being protective and loving. Weak men are abusive, manipulative, and spiteful. There are men out there who gaslight women and make them doubt themselves and their intuition. They steal youth and beauty for notches on their Viagra-infused bedpost and, after a series of broken promises, treat them like an empty bag of chips. They want to absorb all your light but not reflect it back. Your inner knowledge is your best defense against these types to give you a soft landing on your feet once you leave and reclaim your self-worth.
Woolf also extolled the need for women to have their own money. Any woman in a relationship should have her own bank account solely in her control. You never want to be caught out if you need an exit plan, especially with these aforementioned gaslighters. Practical magic has a proud place beside the esoteric.
So, if the door to your private women’s mystery has been locked or jammed shut or covered with cobwebs, this is a good time to open it, cleanse it, and decorate it with your joy — and maybe even some fuzzy ovaries.
