Columns
Saturday, 1 March 2003
Crones
Crone: (krōn), n. A withered, witchlike old woman: Webster’s.
I am at Corallina Cove at Montana de Oro. This place is a womb. The last time I was here, I came with my 73-year old mother, my Aunt Vengo, 79, and Aunt Mary, 80. I hadn’t yet left my square job in a box-shaped building. I was thinking about freelance writing full time and I was afraid.
I sat on the craggy rocks and watched the three old ones, as I call them, clamber over rocks at the water’s edge, stuffing their pockets full of the rocks and empty sea snail casings and small shapes of driftwood to complete their nativity scenes at home. I leaned against the steep curved walls and attached myself to the cove’s womb, birthing an idea. I was the only childless one here, but my body knew what to do. I sank into the dark, rich shadows at the back of the cove and listened to the shrill laughing.
The birthing of any idea is painful. It requires stretching, being in the dark. I am afraid of this first step. I clutch at clarity and security even as I push it away. Often I am so busy grasping a future that I forget the sweetness of now. Now, I simply do not know the shape my new life will take. Will my new child be a book or a CD? Sometimes I am so scared that my in breath is a gasping for air while my out breath is a shaky wave of tears. But I am learning to trust my life as a feminine circle living in a square world.
To live as a feminine circle is to birth creativity in the form of a project when it is time to birth. Period. As a daughter of a patriarchal society, I have learned to value logic, control and planning. I have always wanted to be a writer but I discovered I spent most of my time reading about writing instead of writing. Preparing to write. Planning to write. But as a daughter of the matriarchal cycles, I must follow my inner voice: whether or not my bank balance says I am ready.
I hear my mother laughing. I remember telling her I was leaving my safe job as a sales executive in Los Angeles to be songwriter in Morro Bay. She gave me her blessing saying that I knew what was right for me. She smoothly skipped over the fact that I was basing my decision on having just written two songs in my entire life. The nine years I have spent birthing myself as an artist since then have been the most painful and exhilarating times of my life. Now I am giving birth again.
My aunts would be surprised if I told them they were crones. They only know the above Webster’s definition. They have never heard my definition, one that I hope Webster’s will soon embrace.
Crone: An elderly wise woman who has grown rich with the blood of life; A powerful sage who treasures life enough to dig deep into the earth with gloveless hands. A woman who stands straight, though her back is bent and loves strong though her heart has broken one thousand times. A warrior who will cut the lies out of our bodies with her teeth, if that’s what it takes to save us.
May we always be juicy.