September song...

I thought this month would kill me - as it always does. That transition from the joys of summer to the realities of fall is a crucible, of lessening light, and frosty mornings and the ennui of hibernation in the offing.

I struggle to find the creative moment. Once found, the moment is fleeting and the satisfaction limited. Somehow I have not satisfied the desire for growing plants, sitting on the beach, and watching the moon outdoors with cicada sounds and summer choirs of night noise.

The magic wains - the mystery and melancholy stares me down. I blink and look away. Now I scan the computer screen for get-aways to topical islands - in my dreams.

August -die she must...September winds blow chilly and cold...

It has been a summer of existential moments - Colorado to the Jersey Shore; surprise death announcements and the detectable epidemic of cancer among women over fifty; reclaimed my sport and then twisted my ankle just to remind me that youth WILL fade; and re-visitation of those old boy friends. "A love once young has now grown old."

There was some positive insights: the trend for retirees to become dedicated athletes (the Iron Man has less and less competition when your in your 70s or 80s and a greater chance to win; I have a 1% chance of dying from a heart attack or stroke according to my doctor. I asked him what were the prospects of outliving my money!.
And after all, there is only one direction but forward. So...

A Mexican curandera sings this song in the Mazatec language:

Woman who thunders am I, woman who sounds am I,
Spider woman am I, hummingbird woman am I...
Eagle woman am I, important eagle woman am I.
Whirling woman of the whirlwind am I, woman of a sacred enchanted place am I.
Woman of the shooting stars am I.

Observations of sport-town culture

Peter Pan lives in this spectacular realm of perpetual boyhood dreams. A town like Crested Butte is the perfect venue. As I observe this, I will add without judgment. It isn’t bad or good – it just IS. There is a certain amount of colorful charm to this culture. The guys usually have a wonderful dog. (There are very few P-Ps with cats as companions. In facts I saw two guys on bike try to run down a cat sitting on the edge of the street.) This town is a wonderland of handsome athletic men of all ages with handsome medium to large size dog companions – we are speaking of Golden or Labrador retrievers, shepherds and herd dogs of all origins, Australian cattle dogs. Dogs are the entree to social interaction.


It’s cute guy, cute dog – usually on bicycle or open-top jeep. The rugged outdoorsman with no dress requirements – but name brand mountaineering or mountain biking equipment. Weekenders here from the city, are in Subarus. The Range Rover and BMW crowd are marrieds and not apart of this culture.
The local radio station announcer mentioned that July would bring “the semi-annual changing of the women”. Peter Pans apparently prefer a woman for each season – ski and mountain biking. Attachment is seasonal at best and perceived as a weakness. It is the perfect lifestyle of marginal employment and not filing taxes – often working at jobs on a daily whim, not demanding a consistent schedule – because there is the sport of the season which is the raisonne d’etre.

The down side is the lure of the perpetual party in the guise of social meaning and community. It is surprising how many petty arguments arise among them – about money, buying drinks or not fulfilling promises. The guys are not anti-social, they are charming, but the brat does emerge on occasions. Maybe it is the sense of entitlement that comes with no responsibility.

I think the culture remains attractive until the ago of thirty or so, thereafter, the lifestyle become stressed by the failure of all relationships (except an adoring parent, perhaps). Then the population either converts or is changed (following the path of the true anti-social); to age as Peter Pan is looks- and- constitution- dependent. I’ll give them until 60 or when alcoholism sets in before there is an awakening.

Heidi, Peter Pan and the Coyotes

Yes - we are on vacation - so its time to think outside of the box. Luckily I am on top of the world at 8,885 feet in the Rockies. The thinness of the air is helpful, and I was amused by the advert for the High Attitude Institute of Health, which helps athletes condition for sports performance, as well as cures mental disorders. My hosts think I should live at high altitude all the time, and maybe that is something to consider.
Meanwhile, my only internet connection is outside the local library so I have been unplugged for a few days, walked the mountain outside my door, examined others' lifestyles including my own, and feel better for it.
The outcome cannot be rushed so I'll just have to keep you in suspense.

Suffice it to say, every night I listen to the coyotes howl and it is doing something to me - though I have not yet grown fur. I started as Heidi, trekking on the picturesque mountain passes that surround me. I'll tell you more about the Peter Pans (plural) later. But I am not the blonde child who was attending her grandfather ( or the memory thereof) any longer.

Stay tuned.

It's June and now we are blooming...

Just like nature (whom I prefer to see as a source of creativity, call it mother, if you will) we are bursting with something new. The scheduling of life has a interuption. Bless us! Since most of us "work" in the world where the exchange of goods is the paramount activity, now the boss is on vacation, we can go home early in Friday, and commitment is to fresh start - Hatch an Egg!. Watch something grow beside the GNP (which isn't growing anyway so let's get real).

Nature rules - you silly boys.

Non-verbal ...

Piles of stuff

Hello Crones,

Well, I'm back. My life and schedule have prevented me from doing anything extra, including this. But I blew off work today, have been trying to penetrate the piles of stuff in my house and in my yard. Piles of stuff. Sometimes I seem ruled by piles of stuff. When I am at work? Piles of stuff. When I am at home? Piles of stuff.

I have enjoyed catching up on reading your posts. Purple Queen, don't fret! There's still time to be bad! I have gone erratically back and forth between the good girl and the bad girl since college and now think I am integrated into the good bad girl. Or maybe the bad good girl is more to the point. Whatever! I am both and so are you. Puff away I say!

Fiona, energy is in short supply these days, though I find that with enough enthusiasm I can manage to push ahead. But there's the rub: to find joy and enthusiasm in the everyday. I can certainly find the energy to take a trip when I am lucky enough to have the opportunity. I can find the energy to dance when I am lucky enough to have the opportunity. Why can't I muster the energy to plow through the piles of stuff??? I created those piles, in one way or another; if they are my creation, shouldn't I embrace them and somehow find joy there?

Should. Such a rotten little word.

Please show me how to put an illustration in this blog! I love it when our comments are illustrated! And the last one you put in Fiona was so beautiful. Loved the giggles about sex as a young girl. No giggling now, though. Not much sex now, either!

Creative energy

I've been trying to find the energy in spring to move forward. I wanted to take a serene approach but somehow my attention span is leaving me in the mind space of quick response - like a graffiti artist - hit and run. It's called bombing - not that I'm so hip - I just teach contemporary art - so I have to know what's going on. It is not my usual forum - but I am not sure what is usual anymore. I must be born again, after all.

Weather or Not

What is it with the way weather affects our moods? I am trying very hard to be cheerful and light-hearted and it feels as though the clouds from the gloomy outside are making their way into my head. I know every day cannot be SunnyDay or HappyDay, but wow, this one is rough. The flowers are out and they are trying their beautiful best to cheer us all up. (It's difficult to be depressed in a path of daffodils and tulips and roses and forsythia, but rarely are we, on any given workday, standing in such a path of petaled loveliness. Unless we work in a flower shop or a garden center.) But there is something to be said for being able to wear sandals, and skirts with no pantyhose, and short sleeve tops, and no coat. Break out the white shoes and linen capris. Then again, maybe the sun needs a break. There is a lot of pressure on the sun – everyone wishing for sunny days for their softball games and weddings and picnics and birthday surprises and jogs with their dogs. Maybe the sun needs some time off. And maybe the clouds need some on-the-job experience. We don't exactly wish for clouds too often, unless there is a ball game we hope will be rained out. I guess it's not too fun being GloomyDay – no one really wants it or asks for it too often. Bummer.

My goal for the day is to be glad to have this GloomyDay. It's overachieving and underappreciated. And having more than once been an overachieving, underappreciated myself, I think it needs to be accepted and – although it's hard to do wearing long pants and a coat and regular shoes with socks – embraced.

Good/Bad

When I was in high school and college, I was one of the Good Girls. Never smoked, never drank, certainly never touched the "other stuff" that the other kids were into. Smelled pot, but only in the bathrooms. Had no idea what acid or mushrooms or cocaine even looked like, let alone felt like. I left that stuff to the Bad Girls. And I tried to never associate with them, because I was very concerned about studies and grades and what my honors teachers would think and what my honors peers would think. My schools were hotbeds for all the bad stuff, so needless to say I was in the extreme minority. And oh my goodness, didn't all that stuff kill brain cells and cause permanent damage?

Now looking back on it - I did the right thing at the right time - I suppose.

And now that I'm grown up with a grown-up Honors life and grown-up Honors children and we're all trying to make the right grown-up Honors choices, I sort of wish I had steered off the path at least once. I'm not talking about being a full fledged Bad Girl, but maybe once in a while doing a Bad Girl thing. Like smoking in the girls' room. Or trying pot. Or at least befriending one of the Bad Girls. After all, they could not have been all that bad all the time. They just did not make the same choices as I did, and vice versa. And whose to say that I made all the right choices? Being Good was good, but it was also boring. And maybe I would have been a good friend to a Bad Girl. Who knows?

In the meantime, I'd love to try some pot.

Riding the Waves

I know the Baroque period is filled with images of the Rape of Europa (with reference to the mythological scam of Zeus appearing in the form of a bull to the maiden Europa). There is a fabulously ornate version of the subject in the Philadelphia Museum of Art collection. It has been hanging in the same place since the museum was erected in the 20s.

As youthful museum aides during our high school years, my friend Linda and I were in the museum every Saturday performing assigned tasks like wrapping Christmas cards to be sold in the shop and pointing patrons to the ladies room. In exchange we could roam the museum in the late afternoon discovering all of the treasures.

One Saturday we turned the corner to see the white bull fantasy. The bull was bedecked in flowers, hovered over by troops of cupids, wearing a goofy expression on his bovine mug. We had no idea about the apocryphal story of seduction. We laughed explosively. We couldn't stop. We laughed so hard a laugh that we couldn't walk or stand. We were simultaneously doubled over in mirth and pain, afraid the museum guard would toss us out.

Maybe we were hysterical with adolescent intuition about sex (mythological or physical). Today, every time I think about human sexuality (from fable and from experience) I feel similarly transported. It is goofy, after all.

Great

One of my neighbors had this tremendous, gorgeous tree in her front yard. Gorgeous to us neighbors, perhaps, as it was grand and rich with foliage, and the shade was lovely. Not so much gorgeous to her, as she was the keeper of the tree, thereby the raker of the leaves and the pruner of the branches. I'm talking major tree work. Well, this past February - after so many years and being very tired of the upkeep required - she had the tree cut down. Removed entirely. The roots shaved down, and the stump gone. Aaack. It was a bit of a shock, seeing all of that space, all of that grass and remains of the Great Tree That Was. Well, lo and behold, last month something popped up from where the center of the trunk had been. I thought it was a piece of stray paper that had fallen out of someone's trash, and blown across her yard. Very odd. A closer look showed that it was a bud. Huh? How can this be? A little green bud popping out of what used to be a huge tree, from a spot thought to be dead. So I waited a few days. Then something bright red popped through the green. Holy smokes, it's a tulip. A perfect, pint-sized tulip. Honest to God. Bright cherry red, with the greenest of leaves. Taking quite a chance to root and grow on the site where something else had been - strong and lush - something that had been cut down. A bit risky, eh? But isn't that a good thing? That piece of ground was meant to be something, meant to be the support system and foundation for something great. Yes the tree was great. But isn't the tulip as well? To grow and to blossom is great - no matter where or when - and no matter how it happens. And great in size is not to be measured in inches or feet, but to be measured in strength of the spirit and beauty of the soul. So much that is beautiful and great blossoms from whatever was.

So the next time I am feeling like that tree - cut down and nonexistent - I need to know that I can always choose to root again from that very spot. I can choose to be the tulip.

Taxes, toads and tomatoes

So the taxes eat us up, the toads fuck us up and the tomatoes are a fruit that sustains us.

When I worked in a place that took my taxes out automatically, it was painless. But as a fellow crone pointed out, they get to keep the interest and use my $ all that time too. (Not to mention spend it on WAR) But writing a check for taxes at this time of year is devastating if you (that is, me) thought you were managing financially on your (my) own. This is the one year anniversary of my divorce; I am happily going it alone. But oh my God, how will I continue this into old age, dementia, etc.? How can I possibly make enough money to live to a ripe old age? Maybe I am in my ripe old age right now....

Well, Fiona, your toad may have fucked you up in the past (if I remember correctly) but it seems like this is the perfect and appropriate approach at this time in all our crone lives. I, too have a friend that is hopeless "partner" material, yet once or twice a year we really enjoy each others' company. That suits me. I just would like a few of those cowboys, not just one! (Or Indians would be fine, too)

As for tomatoes, I am looking forward to summer and the richness which tomatoes represent for me. They are a symbol of summer. At one time my sisters-in-law and myself tried to start a business called Hot Tomatoes, a name I somehow found appropriate. (It turns out that there is a swing band in Denver with that name. ) Can crones be Hot Tomatoes? Oh yeah, especially with toads....

Another Tale of Two Cities

Well the story is always in the telling. And the moral of the story is something we have to work for - at least that's the way it is in the more subtle (i.e. confusing) real life dramas (funny, I wrote traumas the first time around). I wrote a comment to  Sioban's post - check it out.

More Stories PLEASE.

Immersed

in genealogy as one of the paths to enough self-realization to be able to be a more evolved human.

Maybe. I just know I have been searching for and reading anything I could find to state fully that members of my family, some of my kin, no matter how distant, were slave-owners. I tried to talk to my Dad about it at the nursing home. It's my Mom's family, not his (so far). Mine, regardless. I know, of course, that talking with Dad is sometimes "like herding kittens," but he is often sharper than expected. Am I seeing selective dementia? Or did her genuinely want to talk about the pizza I had brought him? How does his brain work at this time of his life? Maybe it's his folksy way of acting as if he never heard me to be polite. (The subject being impossible to process?) Maybe he just couldn't absorb or offer any more sorrow.

The good news is that Georgia may actually have some family that isn't so WHITE. We may have wonderful new relatives that we know nothing about. It would be so interesting to meet them if they had any family history to share to put the puzzle together.

The bad news is how it may have happened. The fear that rape was a part of my family history is worse to me than finding out that there were suicides. And I may never know more; it may not be part of the written record. Which is why it would be great to talk to someone who might have some stories.

Another Crone from Hawaii sent this to me. It's been around in the past, think. But it really resonates with me right now.

'THE WORLD'S SHORTEST FAIRY TALE!

Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl 'Will you marry me?' The girl said: 'NO!'

And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank martinis, always had a clean house, never had to cook, did whatever the hell she wanted, never argued, didn't get fat, traveled more, had many lovers, didn't save money, and had all the hot water to herself. She went to the theater, never watched sports, never wore friggin' lacy lingerie that went up her butt, had high self esteem, never cried or yelled, felt and looked fabulous in sweat pants and was pleasant all the time.

The End

Mother/Nature

Last October I planted about a hundred flower bulbs, because well, when you're a new homeowner and have a new yard, it is your job to read all about your new yard and its possibilities, and you plant bulbs in October. I had never even seen a bulb, let alone planted one. But off I went to the nearest home and garden center, ready to learn about and load up on bulbs. Digging through the bags of bulbs, with full-color pictures of the bloom-to-be on the labels, I made it my mission to see that each of these little brown almost-rounds things end up in the ground, x-inches apart and y-inches deep, with the pointy part up, according to the directions, and so forth. When all were planted, my knees and back and arms ached from squatting and bending and digging. I watered the fresh mounds of earth, all the while telling each little mound how much I loved planting it, that is was very special, and it was concealing a little miracle. That it had a lot of sleeping to do in the next few months.

Then came November. And December, and the holidays and the cold weather and the snow. I worried. I would look at the spots of snow under where I thought the bulbs were, hoping that they were snuggling and cozy and sleepy. I hoped that they could hear me, whispering words of affection through the frosty ground. I even talked baby-talk to these hidden beings, not caring at all how it must have sounded to any neighbors curious enough to watch a woman tiptoeing all over a frozen yard. Here I was living in the moment of the winter, so curious about just when and how Nature would show itself to me and to my yard. Praying that I did in fact help to turn this piece of yard into a garden.

Then came The Thaw. The time when there is no more black ice on the sidewalks and street. No more frost on the mailbox. No more unannounced snowflakes. Just cool, post-Winter/ pre-Spring air.

Then came Now.

I'm walking out to my car parked in the driveway, looking at my watch and hoping I would not be late for work. I glance at the curve around the driveway and the walkway, and stop, and my heart seems to skip a beat. Little green stubs of things popping up from the earth. Spaced here and there, oddly enough x-inches apart and probably y-inches deep. Oh my God. It worked. They're here. Maybe they heard me. They must have. They did not freeze. They stayed cozy and slept and snuggled in the ground. And now they are popping up, at their own pace of course, and on their own terms. But here they are, and here I am, and they are miracles and they are glorious and I am the lucky one, getting to see them first. And I look up to the sky and say Thank You, and I look back at the ground and say Thank You. And then I get a bit giddy and I giggle and feel wonderful from the inside out. Then I think how it feels so much like when I had my children - giving birth and seeing a miracle happen right on the spot. And feeling like the luckiest person on the planet. And I think of how every woman, with or without the childbearing part, is a mom to all that she plants and nurtures and cares for, and all that grows and promises to be a miraculous being.

April

Sexy?

This weekend I did something that made me feel so incredibly sexy. What was it, you ask? Tried on a new low cut/high cut something? Walked around in stilettos? Modeled some fabulous new color lipstick to make my lips pouty? Actually, I ate an orange. No knife either; knives are not sexy. A big, fat, juicy California orange, the size of a softball. Used my fingers and thumbs. No fancy nail tips to deal with. Peeled off all of the skin, then separated the sections one at a time, slowly and deliberately. Ate the sections by biting into the middle of each one. The juice got everywhere – down my fingers and hands, dripping onto my wrists. One bite of a section made the juice squirt onto the tip of my nose. Juice gets all sticky on the lips too. Felt wonderful and organic and was ever so yummy.

It’s nice to be at this point in my life, past the low cut/high cut whatevers and past the stilettos, and enjoying food too much to deal with delicate and fussy manicures. Just eating oranges and feeling as feminine and fabulous as humanly, womanly possible.

Waterfalls, watershed and let's move on...

The anticipation of forward movement is the only exciting prospect before me. It is the metaphor of melting -not like the melting of the Wicked Witch (from water contamination, you will recall from the Wizard of Oz) - but from getting unfrozen, unstuck, like the snows of winter going their way at last. Becoming something else - a new medium, liquid, not solid.
Where will be flow this time?
We need some enthusiasm for the first of April.

Hoping for Happy

When I was 22, I was a newlywed. Looking back on it now, I was a wreck in what I thought was happy clothing. My daughter is now 22 and a newlywed and wears whatever clothing she wants. I hope it is happy clothing. More than that, I hope she is not really a wreck. There is something to be said for being a wreck when you're not-really-a-wreck, and you're so happy and nervous and excited and looking forward to wearing more happy clothing with your not-really-a-wreck husband who is also nervous and excited and wearing happy clothing - for better or for worse, etc. and so forth. And you wash his happy clothing and your happy clothing and when you're waiting for all the happy clothing to be clean and dry, you're still a happy couple, not-really-a-wreck, enjoying the stuff young marriage is made of. My hope for my daughter and her husband is that they are really, truly, sincerely happy, regardless of how happy their clothing is.

Spring

It is the time for stepping out of winter skins (and coats). The energy of renewal is moving us in mysterious ways. What is next for you? A questions I am meditating upon as I find the robes(and shoes) of warmer weather much more to my liking. Thanks to artist Annelies Van Dommelen for the image to inspire us.

Eight

I am struggling with this current phase of my personal female being, my Womanness. I have just faced one child's end of college - and beginning of marriage. My second child is a young adult, looking forward to college years and the grown-upness that accompanies them. And here I am, picking through their outgrown clothes and a plethora of bittersweet belongings left behind. And the sadness, when focused upon, can be overwhelming. I know this is what we raise them for... the roots and wings in living color, you know? But that does not eliminate the sadness. The sadness - for me - is at the core of my Womanness, softly screaming "what am I supposed to do now?" My Womanness - having born and fed and raised and cared for these amazing, awesome people as best as it know how - is no longer needed in the same capacity. I have relied on my Womanness for self-confidence, credibility, and basic daily function for a very long time, and honestly I don't know quite how to do it otherwise. Does Womanness evolve? Does evolving get rid of the sadness? What's next? Fiiona and I chatted a bit, oddly enough over my e-mail address. I have always felt a closeness with the number 8. I use it alot, and consider it a "lucky number" if there is such a thing. I attach it to e-mails and e-mail addresses and stuff... just not sure why. Until Fiiona mentioned the word "infinity" and the shape of the number 8. Ahhh, this makes sense. A thesaurus lists "infinity" as "perpetuity; eternity; time without end" and suddenly I feel so much better. Maybe I should think of my Womanness as an infinite being - always evolving and never ending - the number 8 in mind, body, and soul. Maybe this means my Womanness is capable of perpetual love, self-embracing evolution, and a spirit that can experience time without end. Womanness is not locked into anything, unless we want it to be.

So to all of my fellow Dangerous Crones, have an infinitely self-loving and fabulous day!

My own glass ceiling

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, re-reading the postings to the blog which I've photocopied since I have no computer here. I write every day in my own journal, so why not address the conversation sitting in front of me?
In many ways I find it difficult to relate to some of the sentiments expressed. I've not experienced the phenomenon of being held back, burned, or even disappointed as a result of my gender. Maybe it's because I haven't pushed myself beyond my own comfort level (always the "underachiever"), or because I chose a profession populated primarily by women, or even because I've always been - how should I put it - just "average," "ok," or maybe sometimes "cute" in appearance.
Many of the women I know who are beautiful beyond the average Jane have struggled with other aspects of life - disappointed by loves, careers, even self-image, regardless of their intellect or achievements. Are the expectations of a plain Jane so much lower?
I used to think (back when imagining myself something other than I was) that I'd rather be smart than pretty. These days I just hope that, if stricken, I'd rather be blind than deaf.

The Changing Same

So there I was, one of 3 women among 40 men, panelists / experts all, for a 4-day symposium on global poverty... We know about poverty, we single women who were the "cuspers", the ones coming of age when the '70s version of the women's movement was gearing up... Funny: "movement" is just that: moving... It never ended, even though I thought we were exempt, that we were free from the shackles that restricted our mothers, the closed doors and low ceilings that sapped aspiration like Vermont maples in March...

I was invisible, despite my words, despite my knowledge, despite my experience and -- dare I say -- wisdom... I sketched the big picture, from my vantage point, of a field I've helped to birth, a pioneer's reflections on decades of progress... But I was invisible... The men -- all good, decent fellows -- had important things to say, and even sounded a similar clarion call, although mine was broader and deeper... They were questioned, they answered questions instead of me, they were recognized... I was invisible...

Ever since the New Hampshire Democratic presidential debates, when Barack said to Hillary, "You're likeable enough," my consciousness have been re-raised... I'm acutely aware, in middle age, that unless you've the kind of power that goes with position or money, you're going to be ignored... Men are like that... They're very clubby, they tolerate each other's differences, even while fighting... But women are ignored... It took me awhile to get over it (I'm not really over it), to see that it wasn't me, it wasn't that I talked too much, or too long, or too little, or too late, or too this... It wasn't that I wasn't good enough, or concise enough, or anything "enough"... I wasn't a part of the club...

It's hard to live a cliche, when you're part of the battalion... But that's what is going on, both for Hillary (once you separate the Hillary from the female, but we need to remember that, after all, she likely wouldn't have gone so far without Bill, now, would she?), and for all of us who came of age, the Flower Children, trying to get back to the garden... We almost made it, but we didn't...

The military knows that the first troops are likely to die so that others may follow... The first ones up the walls of the castle, up Pork Chop Hill, or parachuted to the ground, are in no-man's-land, outnumbered and on a mission to change the game... The gamechangers, if they survive, eventually retire, and then, maybe, tell their stories... We of the Woodstock generation, the whatever wave of the women's movement, have not retired, and we haven't reaped the rewards due war heroes for trying to change the game... And I'm not even sure we've changed the game!

If you're over 50, single, and in reasonably good health, you still face tremendous odds... You're more likely to slip into poverty, if you're not already there... You're likely to live longer, but with fewer support systems... Public policy doesn't even know you exist, in this family-centric, poll-driven, consultant dominated world of political discourse... And if you've devoted yourself to a cause, to a calling, well, you're not going to be recognized for that, unless you're sponsored by a powerful agent... The rewards are psychic, sometimes self-generated, other times a gift, such as what happened today...

I received a warmly generous, enthusiastic and effusive thank you from one of the students with whom I've been working, whose passion for her cause is boundless... There is synergy there, the life force passing on... When people ask me if I have kids, I say, No, I have lots of students all over the place... This is the continuity, this is the connection... Nurturing, role consistency....

Yet intellectually, I am invisible... This irritates me, especially since I thought we had settled this.. My consciousness is being re-raised... The past is present, the changing same has come 'round again... When this election is over, there will be a boatload of Ph.D.'s examining the role of gender in affecting people's views, media treatment, and so forth... Better we should examine our own lives...

Alone in the desert

Finding oneself after all the hubhub of being the perpetual girl friend, in all of its many forms, seems to appear in alot of women's lives. Interesting, since I have become attuned to this quest I have found alot of historic precedents. Yesterday at Dia.Beacon - the Contemporary Art venue, I saw the work of Agnes Martin. Apparently, she ceased painting for ten years, at midlife, when she moved to the remote desert of new Mexico to build her adobe house. The solitude was a necessity and prelude to engaging by disengaging. She sought the Big horizontal (she was over the mountains).
It's funny that last year at Big Sur I just wanted to stare perpetually at the Big horizontal of the Pacific Ocean. I could have been there alone - but wasn't.
I'll have to go back.

Thoughts?

" When a woman starts to disentangle herself from patriarchy, ultimately she is abandoned to her own self. She comes to an unknown place where she must let the old way of being die and the new way come forth. During the initiation the new feminine potential - that rambunctious girl-child who was conceived and birthed inside during her awakening and had been there all along- starts to grow and develop into the woman she will be."

Kidd, Sue Monk, Dance of the Dissident Daughter, 1992

webiste to check out FYI

http://www.suppressedhistories.net/index.html

Is anyone besides Fiona and Siobhan out there?

Ladies, we suddenly have this great forum to talk about our lives! Where are you?

I am reading and thinking about so many issues right now that I can't seem to focus on one topic. That has always been my challenge, unfortunately. No appreciation for the "Renaissance Woman." Why is it that women like me (and Fiona), interested in a whole world of topics, don't feel "successful?" Is it true that because I am not working one full time job, one rewarded by health insurance, that I am not succeeding? Women are not rewarded for living a life of variety, complexity and discovery.
We are rewarded for being part of a couple, making a family complete by caring for others: cooking, childcare, etc. After those jobs are "done" we become crones. If our mates haven't sniffed the pheromones of other women and departed it is a rare occurrence. (Not that they are greatly missed, mind you.) Serial monogamy is as natural for humans as eating different food. As Margaret Mead said, "Fathers are biological necessities, but social accidents. "

My quandry is where do we crones go next in the greater scheme of things? What lies ahead for us besides accepting the inevitable? I feel very excited and charged up by our future possiblities! We still have time to change the world, don't we?

It is unfortunate that a woman chose to run for President the same time a charismatic black man chose to. I want a woman in power so much I can taste it, but in our patriarchal society, a smart woman still doesn't have a chance against a man no matter what his color is. She comes off as difficult and pushy and strident. (And she may be.) He appears visionary, open-minded and POSSIBLE. And I will probably end up voting for his dreams along with most of the democratic youth of this country. BUT PATRARCHY REMAINS IN PLACE.

Trifles and Fools

Not that the women and the preparation of food are synonymous but the digression continues. The first trifle recipe was written in Elizabethan England in the cook book
The Good Hyswife's Jewell, 1596
There’s more creamy dishes of the Tudor and Stuart period called trifles, fools and white pots along with the suggestion that Tiramisu is the contemporary version of making a dessert from scraps. The tradition continues.
Check out this website for history and details on a wide range of comestibles. I though it interesting that bread, beer and soup are pre-historic.
http://www.foodtimeline.org/

Going even further, look into how people use this site!

The real reason I like English mysteries

Because they can get away with a sentence like, "What would you like, mum's trifle or Spotted Dick?" Where is Groucho when we need him?

But what I really want to know is the reason that "mum's trifle" is in not capitalized but "Spotted Dick" is.

Now if you go to Wikipedia you find a definition for:
Spotted dick is a traditional English steamed suet pudding containing dried fruit (usually currants), which is usually served either with custard or with butter and brown sugar. Spotted refers to the raisins (which resemble spots) and Dick may be a contraction/corruption of the word pudding (from the last syllable) or possibly a corruption of the word dough.^[1] It is possibly conjugated originally from sticky pudding to dicky pudding to dicky to dick and finally spotted dick as in pudding with raisins. It is also known as spotted dog, plum duff, steamed dicky, figgy dowdy, dotted lloyd, packphour's lament, dicky widmark as well as plum bolster, Spotted Richard. and it is sometimes even called a Dickie Burton after the famous actor. Recipes for spotted Richard include the following: (I especially like "steamed dicky")
And here is the healthy recipe:

• White bread crumbs
• Self-raising flour
• Shredded suet
• Raisins or currants
• Salt
• Nutmeg
• Ginger
• Mace
• Citrus fruit peel
• Eggs
• Brandy
• Sugar
• Butter
• Custard
• Brown Sugar

But nothing in Wikipedia for mum's trifle.

Here is a recipe for mum's trifle if anybody cares: Also really healthy!

Sponge:

125 g sugar
4 eggs
100g flour
25g butter, melted

Jelly:
1 punnet raspberries
1 punnet blueberries
1/2 punnet strawberries
3 sheets gelatine
400ml sugar syrup

Creme patissiere:
500ml (2 cups) milk
1 vanilla bean, halved vertically and seeds scraped out
6 egg yolks
125g sugar
40g cornflour
icing sugar
100ml strawberry liquor
200ml cream, whipped
grated dark chocolate

Method:
For sponge- preheat oven to 190 degrees Celsius. Whisk sugar and eggs together in beater until doubled in size and light and fluffy. Then slowly sieve in flour, folding gradually through the mix. When the flour has been incorporated, gently stir through melted butter. Grease 1-2 rectangular baking trays and pour mix out on to the trays. Bake in oven for 8-10 minutes: when cooked sponge should be golden brown.
To make creme patissiere-put milk in pan and add vanilla bean and seeds; bring close to boil and then set aside, for milk to infuse. Whisk eggs and sugar together until pale and ribbon-like, sift cornflour in and mix thoroughly. Remove vanilla bean from milk and slowly whisk milk into the egg mix, then return all to the pan. On low heat stir until the mix bubbles; once bubbling cook for 4 minutes, stirring, or until flour taste has gone. Transfer to a bowl, sprinkle with icing sugar and refrigerate.
To make the jelly- halve strawberries and scatter on the bottom of a large casserole dish with the other berries. Dissolve the gelatine in a small amount of water then heat sugar syrup and pour over gelatine. Cool jelly mixture slightly before pouring over berries.
To assemble the trifle- put a sheet of sponge over the jelly and cut to size. Brush with strawberry liquor until sponge is soaked through. Put on top of jelly and refrigerate until set. When ready to serve mix creme patissiere with whipped cream and spread on top. Sprinkle with grated chocolate.

Serving Suggestion: You can use the creme patissiere in any other recipe that requires custard, such as pastry tarts.
Use the same proportion of gelatine to liquid to make your own individual jellies.

There is no way that I will ever make any of this. (But I'll probably eat it if you do.)

Bibliography

Although I have barely begun my reading to support this blog, I want to suggest a couple of books that I have bought, begun, would like to share and discuss (in no particular order):

Sue Monk Kidd, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter, Harper Collins, 1996

(If you are unfamiliar with her writing, read The Secret Life of Bees. )

Jean Shinoda Bolen, MD, Crones Don't Whine, Conari Press, 2003

She has a number of Crone related books; this is my first, so I really don't have a clue.

Bianca Leonardo and Winifred K. Rugg, Anne Hutchinson, Unsung Heroine of History (1591-1643), Tree of Life Publications, 1995

This one is particularly of interest to me in doing genealogical research. Although I am not related to her, my ancestor, Job Throckmorton, was her neighbor and fellow dissident in Throg's Neck before they were attacked by Indians and had to flee. Unless someone can show an earlier group, these authors claim that she was the first to start "women's groups."
She had twice weekly meetings for the local women to meet to discuss last Sunday's sermon. Needless to say she was punished for it.

Where are we going?

If it weren't snowing (the winter of discontent) I'd have a yardsale.
Surveying the material of my own history I see the task of gleaning a kernel of meaning from the scrape of paper, a poem written nineteen years ago about a turquoise hammock; my mother’s wedding dress flung across the wardrobe mirror; the timid behavior of being good, quiet and respectful – all details that trip me when I take a step.
I've got to move (someday) if not right now.
Move the furniture around. Move some of it right through the front door and out of my life? Maybe this will get me in the mood to launch a purge of everything that no longer belongs under my roof. I seek an exorcism of all knick-knacks, wall hangings, broken dreams, balls and chains, and formerly cute mementoes that have lost their cuteness. My list includes old loves and old ideas. I think the mass of the material, bondage, and association demands surgical necessity. The objects and detritus are becoming tumors on my soul; albatross around my neck. Wow, open the flood gates of movement. The decade of suffocation is resolving.

Where do we live?

Questions about identity and place are a part of the crone's chronicle - especially considering our queenly status. From my perch, I get to see the sunrise over the Sourland Mountains. That's sounds like a chrone's habitat, doesn't it! But to the contrary, the Sourland provide a refuse for wildlife and undeveloped visas rare for a urban state. It is a good place to be right now.
However, when you live in New Jersey, the view of the exotic is aluring. Somehow I think I'm stuck on unbroken visas, uncluttered by the works of man. I have posted a fantasy land which I would be happy to reveal.
I'd like to here from all of you. Are there any city dwellers who vision here?

Take Heart - Valentine's Day

For those of us who are "alone", this day can be a bit awkward. I, for one, won't be getting flowers this year. 

Even though this is a greeting card-contrived event, there is a myth about St. Valentine(after all he was a saint and like all saints stood alone).  He was martyred (was can all sympathize with that plight). It also has to do with wolves. The Christians superimposed the saint's day on a corresponding date in the pagan calendar, the Roman feast of Lupercalia, after Lupa the she wolf who saved Romulus and Remus, the orphaned babies who founded Roman. I am sure y'all can identify with that too.

Meanwhile, I have sent all of our authors who have logged in, a Valentine from Shopfor Museums.com. 

Let's celebrate Valentine's Day with the spirit of Mothers and Martyrs  without whom the world would not have advanced.

welcome

I am so pleased that Carol brainstormed this site. Living now in an empty house, sometimes horrific dreams and an occasionally tumble down the stairs; I am ready to look outside my previous world and move on. Should be fun.

What do we look like?

Finding an image to connect with this site has been a search for identity. So, some of you may know that "Dangerous Crones" began with Ramona and I talking about an all-girl rock and roll group. I was taking guitar lessons, and she said she could play tambourine. We needed some other players!. What should we call ourselves? Considering the demographics - two women "over fifty" - THE DANGEROUS CRONES were born in concept. It has been two years. I quit the guitar and went back to he piano. There were divorces, break ups, gripes with employers about being replaced by less expensive younger women, children grouping up and moving out. We were still smart, fit, active and passed over. TOO old to rock and roll ....too young to.... you guessed the rest.

What started as alternative music became a movement of self awareness, protest and creative response. When I was looking for an image I came across the Empress in the Waite Tarot. She is at least Queen of her Own Domain and she still looks young even though she is over one hundred years old. It is a start. Please contribute own own images and ideas about what it means to be a crone in the 21st century. We are inventing ourselves as we speak.

Welcome to the conversation!

Dear D.C.:

You are old enough, smart enough, and wise in the mercurial ways of the world. You are in the company of the like-minded.

Thanks to our technical wizard, Pam, we now have a voice to share beyond the scope of our uplifting meetings, even when far and away. The first task is to get our charter members on board. So invitations will be sent for you to join, then you can begin to read, write and share in the conversation. I am struck by one outstanding mission - the power of sharing. 

Carol C (Fiiona)

 

Welcome

Hello, and welcome to the Dangerous Crones blog. A blog is a place to share your deepest thoughts with the world, and to hear what the world says back to you. It's a conversation.

Each entry is called a 'post', and at the end of every post you'll see a link for Comments. To respond to a post, simply click the Comments link and fill in the form. It's easy. Next to the Comments link, you'll see an envelope. This is an email link that allows you to easily send a copy of the post to a friend.

If you'd like to write your own post (and I know you do), please send a request to blog-mistress Carol and she will set you up as an author. Since this blog is open to the public, you may want to use discretion when posting email addresses, phone numbers and meeting locations.

Recent posts are listed at the top of the page; scroll down to see previous posts. On the right of the screen, you'll see a section for Archives. Older posts will be stored here and sorted by month. There is also a Crone Links section, which contains interesting links to other web sites or blogs. If you'd like to suggest a link, please email Carol.

This blog is a place to tap into your authentic self. It's the perfect vehicle to share your deep, inner wisdom and speak your truth.

Welcome to the conversation, you glorious crones!