I was thrilled to find a venue in the form of World Pulse that allowed women from all over the world to tell their stories of courage and strength and with their words dispel any thought of second-class world citizenship. When the invitation came to write about personal heroes in honor of the 100th anniversary International Women's Day I was excited and then stumped. What one woman is my hero? There are so many women I admire and cherish and want to emulate. My mother prayed me into existence and nurtured my dreams and inspired me to reach for the stars. Many teachers nourished my mind and my hopes and aspirations. Friends throughout the years have encouraged me and cheered me on and held me when I hurt or stumbled and fell. My daughter inspires me every day to continue to want to make the world a better, kinder place for her.
But choosing just one has been problematic.
And then it occurred to me that it is all of the women of the world - the mothers and teachers, sisters and friends, grandmothers and aunts - that inspire me and give me the hope of a dream that this world can be lovely and kind and compassionate and fair.
It is the women of this world who are caring for the children orphaned by disease and war. It is the women who bake the food that goes into homes of families that are wailing with grief over a lost loved one. It is the women who rock their hungry children to sleep at night, listening to stomachs rumbling while they sing the lullabies that help their babies forget. Women are there when friends are sick or troubled and need a shoulder to lean on. Or cry on.
It is said that the women of the world do two-thirds of the world's work, grow 1/2 of the world's food while earning 10% of the world's income and owning only 1% of the world's property. Startling and impressive statistics that make a person truly think.
And I have always believed it would be women who eventually said 'no' to war and violence and hunger and greed. It is the women who have delivered cherished babies in blood and pain that know life is precious and not to be wasted on the battlefields or in the violence of the streets. No woman sends a son or daughter into the killing fields of any battle without something dying inside of her.
A friend of mine recently wrote a poem about the idea of women holding up half the sky. The imagery of the metaphor is haunting and beautiful. The other, equal half is held up by our men who we love and want and need to walk with us through all our lifetimes.
And still, the half that is held up by women will be better for the living out loud, raising our voices and expressing our ideas and dreams and asking - expecting - to be heard and included and admitted and deferred to when what we say makes more sense.
So I have to thank the women of today, of days gone by as well as days to come for their courage and wisdom and love to keep holding up their half of the sky while keeping most of the world running underneath it.
And, if the story is true, I have to thank that man for giving up his rib so that we could do it all together.