Croneage! Wait. What?
This week at Pagan Book Club we were discussing a chapter from Edain McCoy’s “Celtic Myth and Magick” that discusses the celebrations of changes in our life cycle. As we got to the section on the celebration that comes when a woman transforms from a mother to a crone the young, pretty, well-meaning, early 20-something woman sitting next to me says, “Are you planning your croneage?” To which I quickly, and possibly too loudly, exclaimed, “Sweetie until I’ve had kids I’m still a maiden!” Laughter in the room erupted, and the mortified young woman insisted that she didn’t mean to offend. Then she asked if I really wasn’t planning on anything for when my time comes.
Um, well first of all, can I be old if my Pandora stations include Queensryche, Metal Church, Disturbed, and Nightwish? I mean older adults don’t rock out to heavy metal, do they? OK, OK, so Michael Wilton of Queensryche is 55 years-old, rocking hard on stage and showing off pictures of his grandchild on Facebook, but I’m only 45. So, are we old? Am I old? I don’t have a plethora of health issues. Other than some nasty hip arthritis, a leftover symptom from a car accident, and being obese, I’m very healthy. I don’t need a walker, a catheter, a walk-in tub, or any of those other items sold in advertisements targeting the elderly population.
My aversion to nearing cronehood is cultural. In America the elderly are put in concrete prisons, we call senior living facilities or nursing homes. We place them there leaving them to die alone without the love of their families. An image burned into my brain from when I was a young teenager. Every year my church youth group would sing carols at the nursing home not far from the church. One year, as we were leaving, a senior woman was at the door with her suitcase packed and ready for us to take her home. I still haven’t forgotten the image of her fragile, slightly curved down body, sobbing and begging to go with us as she was walked back to her room. It’s an image of elderhood I will never forget.
As a young woman in my twenties and thirties, I had high regard for my elders. Mainly those I grew up with in church. I’ve watched them live, suffer, and die. My image of their suffering is compounded by working in the medical field. The elderly suffered, as greedy insurance companies concerned themselves with saving money instead of paying for much-needed care. The doctor’s primary concern seemed to be with the influx of payments and not the care provided. I began thinking that I want euthanization by the time I’m 50-years-old.
Now, I’m getting older. I’m rocking the gray hair like a champ and I’m wondering is 45 old? Have I come to that point in life right before I want to end it all? Do I even want to finish it all now that I’m closer to 50?
When I look at aging, I look at it with a cultural and environmental sense of dread. My experiences involving elderly welfare have not been positive. From a young age, I knew old age is not a desirable trait in our society. I heard discussions of aging from adults around me. I watched as my grandfather, tried to obtain work after being laid off slightly before retirement age. Even though he went back to school, he wound up on Social Security to survive. I have listened to a friend, who was a nurse, talk trash about the seniors she cared for at a nursing home. No, my image on aging has not left me with a positive outlook for my future.
Lately, though, there have been a few positive improvements. According to Dana Larsen’s article, How Do Different Cultures Take Care of Seniors, America’s attitudes towards the elderly still include ageism and stereotypes. At the same time, cultural shifts are slowly changing to where specific groups of people are starting to view the older generation as valuable and are providing care for them as well as recognizing the wonderful lives these people have lived, and the value of their experiences and knowledge. Maybe there’s hope for our elders yet.
Still, I’m apprehensive about aging. I already feel unattractive because I’m obese and losing the decades-long battle against bulging. I can’t go to a rock concert without somehow getting harassed by men, including those as big or bigger than me, or having thinner, more attractive women stare down their noses and laugh at me. Oh yeah, it happens. I get called Ma’am all the time. Then again, I moved to The South three years ago. That could factor in. Oh, and let’s not talk about all the hair and extra shaving and waxing. I’m pretty sure, at one time in my life, I didn’t have a mustache. I don’t want things to get worse, but I’m aging, and my body is slowly showing proof for everyone to see.
This week as I’ve mindlessly scrolled through my Facebook feed I’ve noticed the older women with gorgeous gray hair smiling and talking about how amazing their lives are. These aren’t just any women. They’re pagan women, whose quick posts make me look forward to another day of reading the brief glimpses into their lives. These women embrace their age and seem happy. They don’t talk about anti-aging cream and the latest in drug innovations to help them cure their ills. They’re talking about camping, grandchildren, gardening, animals, and magick. Not just pagan magick, but the magick they incorporated into their lives.
Suddenly, I think I could learn something from them. Oh, is this the wisdom of the elderly? Is it not just scholarly degreed wisdom? Is it the blessings of a life studying herbs, and energies? Maybe it’s the love for a life cherished and never taken for granted. Have decades of walking barefoot in the garden, or hiking in the woods communing with nature, created an oblivion to societal perceptions of the elderly?
I look again and again at those beautiful old smiles, and I see a beauty I’ve never noticed before. It’s a vision that can only come from within one’s soul. It’s a beauty that screams young at heart, not old and feeble. These women are strong and live by their rules, without a care for how society views their existence.
I’ve been so overwhelmed by the darker side of elderhood that I never saw the beauty of the crone. She’s not a near death, wise woman with a hunched body ambling with the assistance of a medical device such as a cane or walker. She’s an image of the beauty of a life lived fully, embraced passionately, and cherished for every moment given her. She’s a survivor, a lover still, always a mother, and not afraid of what the future brings.
That’s what has brought me to the decision that I, too, need to embrace my coming of age, elder age. It’s time to stop envisioning the stereotypes of our culture. I need to stop living in the memories and experiences of the past that shaped my negative image of elderhood.
My life is not going to be over at 50-years-old. I can change my ending and embrace the rise, not decline, to cronehood. From now on I will see each day as another opportunity to love my sexy old husband, snuggle my pets, continue to expand my garden and create the fairy-like yard I’ve always wanted. It’s not too late for me. My end is a far way off.
A wise young woman asked me a few days ago what I was doing to prepare for my croning. Well, I don’t have a plan yet, but my first step will be to change my opinion on aging and find the magick in every day that I have. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’d rather be a happy old gray-haired lady barefoot in her garden than, well, I don’t even want to think of that image anymore.
