This poem speaks to me, it has for a while now. I’ve been thinking about it, and now my thoughts need to be shared. It’s been a while since I’ve been inspired to add to this blog, but it’s time.

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗘

𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵, 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗼𝗻𝗲, 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗺𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻, 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗲𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗯𝘆 𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲, 𝗯𝘆 𝗷𝗼𝘆, 𝗯𝘆 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘁𝗵.

𝗜 𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗜’𝗱 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗜 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝗼𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗺𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗺 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲.

𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗱.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗻𝘂𝗴𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗱𝗼𝗺 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻, 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗲.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗽𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗷𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆.

𝗡𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗵 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲, 

𝗜 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱𝗹𝘆, 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗷𝗼𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗿.

𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵, 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻.

𝗝𝗼𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗲, 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲.

𝗗𝗼𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗔𝘀𝗵𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗵

Yes. I would like to join you. And I want to reclaim the word. Crone.

It has been given to the wizened, old lady with the poisoned apple in her twisted hand, the witch, the harridan – a word to describe the least desirable of us all, a useless, bitter old woman.

But in the days before men decided our worth, when women passed their knowledge down, the older women knew the most. They were the wise women, the revered ancient ones who knew how to bring on a pregnancy or end one, who knew which plants and extracts healed and which ones harmed, the ones who oversaw births and deaths, eased pain and restored health. Knowledge was power, and men hated that. So they decided knowledge was only valuable if gained in a university, founded and run by men, usually religious ones. These doctors created medicine, the wise women created potions. The doctors said prayers to make their medicines more effective, the wise women uttered spells and incantations. And they decided wise women were witches, evil people to be hunted and killed, and that the ideal woman was a virtuous, fair maiden who became a dutiful, submissive wife. Old women were relegated to the shadows, silent and invisible.

Over time, the cult of youth took over. The anti-aging, multi-billion dollar beauty industry continues to convince us to exercise and diet to keep our youthful body, to slather our faces with expensive products to keep wrinkles and spots at bay, to colour our hair and lie about our age. To keep the old, wise woman hidden. To continue to render us invisible.

Our bodies change, we are mortal and change is inevitable. We embrace the change from girl to woman but not the change from woman to old woman. We do everything possible, including surgery, to pretend the years aren’t changing us, to remain in the woman phase. We don’t embrace the final step of our journey because long ago men decided old women were dangerous and our societal norms reinforced that in subtle ways until here we are today, in a world that reveres youth above all else.

Well, boomer women are kicking those beliefs to the curb. We are talking about menopause, embracing our silver locks and using cosmetics to keep our skin healthy not wrinkle free. We are active not to look young but to feel alive, to keep our bodies moving so we can continue to travel, chase after grandchildren and make love to our partners.

It will take a long time to erase the beliefs engrained over centuries. Cultural change is slow, the movement forward seems positively glacial at times. But change is a-coming, slow or not. And we silver-haired crones are leading the way, not only for ourselves, but for all those the “moral majority” renders effectively invisible and silent. We will not sit silently in the dark corners, we are raising our voices and marching in protest. Google Jane Fonda and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

As the poem at the beginning of this post says, join me if you like. Be brave, embrace your inner wise woman. Be the active, vital, amazing and beautiful crone our great grandmothers many times removed were never allowed to be.