Am I a Crone?

Judy's backyard flowers October 2009.  Cosmos going strong now.

Zinnias catching up.  Maybe by October like this?

***

The Telling that Changes Everything XXIV. July 29, 2012

We may

stagger in our darkness,

but if we move confidently

forward, we’ll see the gray light

of Dawn, then the yellow saffron

of her mantle, the rosy fingers 

with which she lights our day,

and what, then, will steamrollers

matter to such tough-spirited,

joyous, individual grains of sand?

–The Telling That Changes Everything II.

***

What do I name this time in my life?

Am I a crone but not withered?  Old,

but not yet ancient?  From the way

people look at me, they must see

Death around the corner.  I know Death

lurks near everyone, but I’m not afraid.

He’s not my boogey-man.  Maybe I’ll

call it the Grain of Sand stage.  My body

experiences aging in small ways: some

grey hair, more wrinkles, bent fingers

and toes; knees I need to exercise.

I rest more.  Sleep harder, come to 

waking as if to a whole new life.

It is a new life.  I love easily, have

no patience with fools; take more risks

in my speech and published writings.

I have to remind myself that I’m still

quite canny and capable, when I see

the doubt in people’s eyes.  I think this

stage was as intended as a fully ripe

tomato or a perfect firm, prickly

cucumber.  Alive and well; fit and

free; bold and risky.  If sometimes

I get lonely or forget how well I cope

with marauding critters, rampaging

weeds, or insincerity and manipulation

in other people, let me remind myself

that these years are a gift I did earn

and provide for myself.  I never focused

on money except to buy this farm and

pay for fences and a chicken coop.

I took care of my health; I kept writing

no matter how full my days, how 

short my nights.  I did what I

passionately wanted to do.  I still do.

I learned how to see into souls and 

nourish my own.  Nonna said twenty

years ago that I had an old Russian soul.  

That soul now has a body to match,

still lively, cells still renewing

themselves, Memory still the Muse’s

mother.  The sign that makes an old

Russian soul unmistakable?  Her love

of life, of other people, of the earth

and its creatures and vegetation.  It’s

hard not to admire morning glory

vines that sprawl over the sweet

potatoes, peppers, and tomatoes,

or give a raiding possum credit for

making off with three hundred pears,

or begrudge the cardinals a few figs.

I defend my farm, my crops, my

quiet time in order to live well and

write this old soul onto paper and

scatter the leaves abroad for the

whole world to know what one grain

of sand’s life was like, but I respect

the forces of competition and intrusion,

my animal, vegetable, human opponents,

and then, ultimately, Death.  I hold it

at the edge.  I side with Life.  Call me

a crone if you like, or an old woman.

But consider: I may know things you

need to learn.