Crone is a much maligned word in the western world. Where beauty is youth, there is only fear to be found. Not that far away in time, witches live in stories to frighten children into good behavior. Not to mention hags conjuring spells, crones riding brooms and a good witch burning at the stake on a Saturday night. I am now at at the age that is considered to be that of a crone. I wear the crown of womanhood.
I visualize myself in ten years wearing a long robe with a generous hood walking with a carved staff and a woven herb basket in the crook of my other arm. My long silver hair escapes in strands around my hood. My eyes are full of love and knowledge.
We are in the forest, my gray wolf and I. He is darting among the pines playing hide and seek, peeking at me with his brilliant golden eyes. I am filling my basket with the herbs that I will make into the medicines that will save the lives of my neighbors.
This is the age where the crown of wisdom and grace are bestowed upon us women. My many Sisters also wear the crown of wisdom. We are only now able to impart our experience to the female child, the maiden and mother for we have become the apex of womanhood. There is no fear in our stories, only the knowing of our eternal lives in the company of our future soul tribes.
Meanwhile I’ll just lift my leg over the saddle of my powerful, shining Harley Davidson and head for the on ramp to another exciting ride into the morning sun. At 84 years of age I will trade my iron steed in for a broom and ride off into the huge golden harvest moon.
Thank you young’un for listening to this crone in waiting.