When you’re running programs for women, the kitchen is a really important component.  A group of women were engaged in a variety of projects; studying for their G.E.D., participating in empowerment programs, etc… when one of the particpants came in carrying sacks of groceries.  She announced to us all that she would be preparing Jamaican Chicken and Rice for us that day.  Since she was a native of Jamaica we were pretty excited!  By lunchtime the smells coming from the kitchen were powerful when we were invited to the dining room for the feast.  I don’t have to tell you how good it was to share that experience with a diverse group.  On my way back to my office another woman stopped me and said “she let me watch her cook this morning!”  I wasn’t sure of the significance of the comment and asked why that was so exciting?  The answer:  “I wasn’t raised by my mother and I always wondered what it would be like to be in the kitchen with her watching her cook.  Today I know the answer.” 

Perhaps as women we overlook how important the daily routine is and how grounded it can make us.  Whether or not we were raised by women who could share the simple things with us, we can embrace those things now.  When women share themselves with each other a creative energy comes into the room.  An energy that can inspire, heal, or quiten fear.  

My own mother says I was her only child that even wanted to be in the kitchen with her.  Many times I was definitely in her way and would receive a thump on the head with a request to get out of the way.  But when I was eight I received an Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas.  She let me set it up in a corner and would give me small portions of whatever she was cooking -  everything from biscuit dough to cake mix.  Amazing what creative dishes can be prepared over a light bulb!

Years later I find myself compelled to create this same space for women.  Elizabeth’s House is in it’s third year now of helping women of all faiths and backgrounds renew their spirit and reinvent their lives.  The funny thing is we don’t have a “real” kitchen.  A small room with no stove and a very small sink has become a makeshift space where we turn out amazing things using what we have.  We call it a “one-butt” kitchen as space only allows one person at the sink, handing off dishes to another, who hands them off to yet another to be put away.  Meanwhile, put on some rockin’ music and we are little girls again - a simpler time when women gathered for the simple things.

I was leading a workshop at a non-profit organization that serves low-income women.  A woman new to the program walked in and listened intently as the discussion covered a variety of topics.  At one point this woman interrupted my discussion and said “you seem to know a lot of things about a lot of things so I’m wondering – how do you know all these things?”  After a moment to consider the question I said there are a lot of things that seem as though I’ve always known them.  Perhaps some of them are things my parents always told me and so some things I don’t remember not knowing.  The next question out of this woman’s mouth changed me when she said:  “Can I tell you something?”  “I was raised by pimps and whores and they didn’t teach me those things.  Who will teach me now?”

We don’t all have the same starting point.  What could we teach one another if there were a place of non-judgement that invited women to just be women.  What could we learn about ourselves?  So much.  Another reason we need a place like Elizabeth’s House.

I was trying to remember when the seed was first planted for Elizabeth’s House and I think I figured it out.  I was in my 30’s sometime after the birth of my second child and was at my annual check-up with my gynecologist.  As I lay on the exam table responding to the question “how have you been?” I pulled out my list of everything that was wrong.  “I seem to be really tired all the time, I don’t have much motivation, everyone gets on my nerves, and I’ve lost all interest in sex, I began.”  Before I could continue the doc scooted himself across the floor on his little scooty stool and began writing me a prescription for an anti-depressant.  When I aked the question ”you mean if I take these pills I will want to have sex?”  he responded “no, not necessarily – but you won’t care if you do.” 

As I was filling the prescription later that day the pharmacist informed me of the drug’s potential side effects, one of which was “difficulty in achieving orgasm.”  Now I was really confused.  I’ve lost all interest in sex and I’m taking a pill so I won’t care if I have sex but when I do I won’t even enjoy it.  Wow!  And so began my quest to find out if other women understood what was happening with me, or if something was really wrong.  Asking those questions led to many more and an awareness of how important it is for women to have each other during times of transition.  I took the anti-depressant for a year and then realized I had stopped caring about a lot of things, not just whether I had sex or not. 

And so began that road less traveled of looking inside myself to find the answers I still perceived as outside of me.  If I had an Elizabeth’s House back then, that journey could have been a lot smoother.