Crone in Training
I am a crone-in-training, devouring the wisdom of my elders, weening off the day-to-day pleasure and pain of being a mom.
I am in an archetypal transition from mother to crone, evidenced by my silver hairs and turbulent dance with peri-menopause, a liminal space betwixt and between. I am a crone-in-training, devouring the wisdom of my elders, weening off the day-to-day pleasure and pain of being a mom.
It feels appropriate that I’m spending exponentially more time in the woods, alone. The first month I felt sheer panic if I didn’t have plans with someone else during the long stretch of hours my husband was gone. Now I’m excited when my calendar is open, my mind, heart, and spirit eager to expand.
Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t gone full-on witch in the woods. I still can’t tell one tree from another, the birds all look the same, and I’m as prone as ever to killing plants. I alternate my spiritual texts with soft-core rom-com porn and eat organic vegetables with my Halloween candy. I draw zen doodles and stare at my phone, love the Gaia channel but also trashy Netflix. I do meditation and medication.
This election day, I’m volunteering for Kamala at the polls but wishing peace and goodwill to my neighbors. I left little black and orange goodie bags of Hershey’s Kisses in each mailbox at the intersection of the paved and dirt road, regardless of political affiliation, or what flags are in their driveway. I hold true to my beliefs and convictions but don’t want to spread toxic energy into the world through judgement and hatred. I believe this is a gift I am receiving from the crone.
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Crone? Ah, yes! C’mon in!