If a goddess aspect has dominated or defined my life, it would be the crone aspect. A crone goddess was the first to call me; when I was a wee girl I grew up close to many crones, including seven great-aunts, all little old ladies (except two of them, who weren't little); when I lived alone for the first time as a young adult I became close friends with my next-door-neighbor, Mrs. Crawford, an 80-something dynamo who was a living textbook on living well independently into an advanced, crotchety cronehood; I started walking with a cane in my mid-40s when I shifted, body-wise, into an early cronehood.
Recently, of course, scientists have proven how
important crones are to the survival of our species, yet they are still almost invisible women in my culture.
The list of women celebrities who deny us the public face of the crone by their numerous plastic surgeries is long, growing, and to me, tragic. I agree with Diane Keaton, who said about plastic surgery: "What's so great about wiping the marks of experience off your face?"
In any case, in my role as cheerleader for crones, I bring you the first of what I hope may be many found crone stories:
Getting Home by Robert Brady at Pure Land Mountain.
Haloscan:
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Blogger:
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