The Voice Of The Crone.
Twilight spun its magical web upon the land, fireflies and faeries dancing together in the fields.
The night-song of the forest had begun awakening the nocturnal melodies in the branches and setting the darkness alight with music. The Moon was a crescent pendant hung low around the sky goddess’ neck, offering a thin veil of silver painting the tips of the leaves.
Seated in front of me, casting a wise eye to the skies above, drawing down some unseen ancient and mystical knowing, sat The Crone. She seemed to become an extension of the moonlight that spilled upon her platinum tresses and over her shoulders elegantly like a mystic queen donning a cape of pure starlight.
“Child, they will never stop telling you to act your age, they do it to me often. And my reply has always been the same: I will act the age my soul sees fit. If you take issue with that, then I suggest you turn away and take your leave, because I’m not going to betray my heart and sacrifice myself on the fires of your expectation,” she stated emphatically.
“You see,” she continued, “there are some that look down their nose at the ages of women, thinking once we reach a certain age, we are past a certain use, an invisible line in the sand set there by the binding chains of the patriarchal mindset.
I always ask these people, why then do they celebrate the sacred sights that adorn the Earth, the ancient monuments of magic that stand from a time long ago? Why do they pay reverence at places that were used in ritual and worship many moons ago?
They are powerful portals of deep wisdom and magic, they reply. Exactly the same as women, is what I say to them. The power grows and builds within these ancient marvels of the Earth; there is no cap on it with age. It is the same with the Divine Feminine.
They try to take our power by means of shame or ignorance, but it doesn’t take our power, child, it takes theirs. And like the sacred places wild and raw with ancient sacred power, we stand still and grow with each passing day.”
The Crone stared into the fire, her wise eyes eternal and sparkling. “Child,” she said, “I grow my hair long, though many have told me to wear hair like this is solely for the maiden. I am still a maiden at heart and I will keep my hair all my days if that is what I wish, for I follow no rules set before me from society and perceptions of others. To each woman, it is a choice how we decorate our sacred temple, not the decision of any other.
They would tell me to color the grey from my tresses as well to conform to an ideal that serves to wash women of their power. For all the world I would not give up these strands of magic. Would you give away such treasure, such majesty, so easily, I ask them. Why do you fear age and wisdom and would have me hide from your eyes?
My head is my crown and from it flows strands of silver mirroring the hue of the full moon light, the gossamer mists that part on the waters edge, and the thundering powerful clouds in the sky before a storm. Watch those who try to get you to conform and bow, my child; more than likely, they are trying to take the crown of silver from your head.”