Wisdom of the Crone
by Lisa A Kramer, in Fiction
, Writing
You look at me and call me Crone. Ancient, wrinkled, old. Or perhaps you don't look at me at all. Perhaps you are one of those people who can only see those whose flesh contains the juices of young blood, young life.
I had the beauty of youth once. I was not born old. Some said my beauty rivaled that of famous beauties--Helen of Troy, Aphrodite, Cleopatra even Angelina Jolie.
But physical beauty is unimportant. It always fades away.
I would be honored to be connected with any of those women, but not because someone decided they were beautiful. Rather because they lived life with passion and intelligence, making their own rules on the way.
But I digress. Now you see only the wrinkles that fill my face; lines that tell stories you will never understand. If you even see me at all.
I'm sure, when I was young, I ignored those who aged before my eyes. At first, I saw them as you see me. To you I am nothing but an ancient crone, withered and frail, waiting for the end to come. I thought the same thing until . . .
What if I told you that the lines on my face know the answers of questions long asked? What if I told you that I could solve the problems of the world and bring about peace, because I know the secret behind the world's ills? Would you believe me? Would you listen?
What if I told you I have learned the answers over a lifetime of study, experiments, and observations? What if I told you that the path toward answers was given to me as a gift from someone with so much wisdom it poured out of her eyes. She started me on the road, and I followed it for the rest of my life--each wrinkle represents that journey.
I was still young and beautiful on the day I met her--the Ancient One, the first Crone. She has no other name, or at least she never told me what it was. I met her in the woods, as I wandered alone, searching for the solution to some silly problem..
"You've finally come," she said. "I have waited a long time."
She called me by name--a name that has been lost over the years, as my life has faded into the oblivion of old age. It has been lost because you do not see me.
"I don't understand," I said. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Do you need help? How do you know my name?"
"Slow down, my child. The answers will come in time. I am your future, I am your past. I am what you will become, if you will listen and learn."
And so I listened. And so I learned.
And eventually she passed the truth onto me, and closed her eyes for the last time.
What if I told you I knew the truth? Would your inability to see past the faded beauty cloud your hearing as well? Would you doubt because the words come from the faded voice of ancient woman?
If you cannot listen, you will never learn.
I had the beauty of youth once. I was not born old. Some said my beauty rivaled that of famous beauties--Helen of Troy, Aphrodite, Cleopatra even Angelina Jolie.
But physical beauty is unimportant. It always fades away.
I would be honored to be connected with any of those women, but not because someone decided they were beautiful. Rather because they lived life with passion and intelligence, making their own rules on the way.
But I digress. Now you see only the wrinkles that fill my face; lines that tell stories you will never understand. If you even see me at all.
I'm sure, when I was young, I ignored those who aged before my eyes. At first, I saw them as you see me. To you I am nothing but an ancient crone, withered and frail, waiting for the end to come. I thought the same thing until . . .What if I told you that the lines on my face know the answers of questions long asked? What if I told you that I could solve the problems of the world and bring about peace, because I know the secret behind the world's ills? Would you believe me? Would you listen?
What if I told you I have learned the answers over a lifetime of study, experiments, and observations? What if I told you that the path toward answers was given to me as a gift from someone with so much wisdom it poured out of her eyes. She started me on the road, and I followed it for the rest of my life--each wrinkle represents that journey.
I was still young and beautiful on the day I met her--the Ancient One, the first Crone. She has no other name, or at least she never told me what it was. I met her in the woods, as I wandered alone, searching for the solution to some silly problem..
"You've finally come," she said. "I have waited a long time."
She called me by name--a name that has been lost over the years, as my life has faded into the oblivion of old age. It has been lost because you do not see me.
"I don't understand," I said. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Do you need help? How do you know my name?"
"Slow down, my child. The answers will come in time. I am your future, I am your past. I am what you will become, if you will listen and learn."
And so I listened. And so I learned.
And eventually she passed the truth onto me, and closed her eyes for the last time.
What if I told you I knew the truth? Would your inability to see past the faded beauty cloud your hearing as well? Would you doubt because the words come from the faded voice of ancient woman?
If you cannot listen, you will never learn.
