But I live in a 100 year old farmhouse.
I can't help constantly pausing throughout my day to wonder about the women who used to live in my house. How many women shushed a baby in the dark in the upstairs bedroom? How many women darned a sock here as the cold, winter wind rapped at these windows? How many women stood right here and chopped the vegetables they were adding to their families dinner?
I lovingly stroke the door frames and feel inexplicably connected to them, as if not a day has passed.
I am buying up Mason jars left and right, not to hot glue them up with the latest Pinterest trend, but to can jam and salsa and pickles. I find this innate pleasure in sewing, barefoot in the dining room; an almost primal feeling when clapping flour off of my doughy hands.
So, my question is this: Are we allowed, in this day and age, to be proud of such things? To find honor in striving to get back to the basics of the wives and mothers that came before us? I would like to think that I can be all of these things: a woman, a wife, a feminist, and a pioneer woman at heart.