The Blizz of 2016

Rough times on the east coast last weekend!

From 70 degrees at Christmas, we descended into an old-fashioned hoot and holler of a snowstorm. I guess in central Pa it did not quite reach blizzard status, although the storm came, as all great blizzards do, from the Northeast, fat with ocean water.

There was wind and snow and snow and more snow. Here, where entire winters can pass without note, it was quite a sight. There was a part of me that found it welcome, after a NY childhood imprinted by stark Lake-Effect White Howlers.

New York State Thruway

For a little, I gazed out the window and sent my consciousness into The Dance of the Snowflakes (Swan Lake) and imagined Dame Helda (the German Calliach) doing her crone dance. It's beautiful when I simply fly on the wind as one of them, but frightening when I'm a human once more, gazing up at the swaying power lines upon which our civilization hangs.

Nearby, from where they'd been sitting, enjoying a grassy golf course, the local "Canadians" squawked. When the sky cleared the next day they flew in circles, bemoaning the loss of the open fields upon which they'd been so steadily grazing.

In the end, it was a local record: 30 inches of the white stuff in a 24 hour period. Briefly, our Hobbit name was "Under-Snow." It took a lot of digging--and some neighborly help--to get both cars out. And it's not so much the "digging" part, either, that's wearying. It's the trudge across the road and the toss up onto a high snow bank that's truly challenging.

Not that there was anywhere to go after we had completed our excavation. For once, most everyone paid heed to the warnings and stayed in. That steady stream of traffic which regularly hurries along "the back way" to the Park and the outlets, for today, anyhow, is silenced. Many neighborhoods in small poor urban areas remained choked with snow; days later, people had not managed to get out to work.

 

 

 

This morning, we chipped ice. As we age, falling becomes not just a concern but a definite possibility, as Gravity's attempts to drag us--once and for all--to the ground, seem to have recently redoubled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

http://www.julietwaldron.com

 



THOUGHTS ABOUT DIAN FOSSEY

A Google doodle yesterday told me that January 16th was Dian Fossey's birthday, and after a short trip around the web to brush up on her bio, I thought I'd add her to our list of famous January Crones. Mythical Crones often come with non-human companions; the old woman and her cat, burned together at the stake, are a tragic part of Herstory.

Born in 1932, Fossey was only three when her father, a heavy drinker, left the family. A few years later her mother remarried, but the new stepfather was rigid and unloving. Until she was ten, Dian took all of her meals in the kitchen with the housekeeper. Early on she knew she wanted to be a vet--animals simply engaged her more than people--and she was already a gifted equestrian. Her stepfather opposed her plan, but Dian plowed ahead anyway, working different low wage jobs to earn tuition. Ultimately, the mathematics portion of the curriculum defeated her, and she ended taking a degree in occupational therapy.

She took a job as director at the Kosair Crippled Children's Hospital in Kentucky, where she worked with disabled and autistic children, finding connections others could not with the later. After work, she lived on a farm, in a time of real happiness. Here she was closer to the rhythm dictated by the needs of the animals she cared for and where she could ride her beloved horses.

And here I'll end the biography, as the rest is better known, especially her life in Africa, where she was first an observer, and then a friend and guardian to a family of shy, gentle, endangered mountain gorillas. Before yesterday, I had never known much about her childhood, but it doesn't take a psychologist to understand reasons for the trajectory of Dian Fossey's life. She'd had a hard childhood, abandoned by both father and then emotionally by a mother who cared more for a new husband than for her own child. Looking for a family who would not disappoint, Dian arrived in Africa more than open to the idea of a non-human one. 

"I feel more comfortable with gorillas than people. I can anticipate what a gorilla's going to do, and they are purely motivated." ~~ Dian Fossey

Gorilla families will fight to the death to protect their infants, so when hunters take a baby, they usually kill all the adults, too. The killing of Digit, a young male gorilla whom she'd loved since his infancy, as well as other members of his family during such a raid, sent her off on crusade--against the colluding park rangers, against the villagers who cut trees and grazed cattle inside the park, and against the poachers, who could make as much as $200,000 for the head of a gorilla. A middle-aged woman alone in a volcanic jungle, almost single-handedly, she tried increasingly desperate and extra-legal measures to protect her adopted family and their wild home.

 “The man who kills the animals today is the man who kills the people who get in his way tomorrow.”

Since her unsolved murder, in 1985, which might have been politically motivated, some, (predictably, a writer at The Wall Street Journal) have done their best to disparage at Dian's reputation and belittle her. "Racist" and "alcoholic" are among the epithets, but I wonder who among us whose family has been murdered and whose land has been invaded and ruined, would not be full of despair, rage and a passionate desire for revenge upon those responsible? 

The mountain gorillas remain in danger of extinction, more so than in Fossey's day, when she, out of her own pocket, paid to protect them from poachers and corrupt politicians. She raised awareness of the plight of these close primate cousins, whose DNA is 98% similar to ours and whose social organization, individuality, and emotions so much mirror our own. 

“When you realize the value of all life, you dwell less on what is past and concentrate more on the preservation of the future.”   


The Dian Fossey Gorilla fund:

http://gorillafund.org/page.aspx?pid=379



~~Juliet Waldron
Historical Novels:
http://www.julietwaldron.com
https://www.facebook.com/jwhistfic
http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

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Mythic Stages/The Crone

Crone Henge is a place where old women talk about old things: history, myth, magic and their checkered pasts, about what changes and what does not. Old women are the forgotten members of our society, but in times past, they were revered for their wisdom. In fact, both words, crone and hag, came from words meaning wisewoman. It’s good to see that older women are once again claiming their place in the world, if only in this blog.

According to Moondance, crones cared for the dying and were spiritual midwives at the end of life, the link in the cycle of death and rebirth. They were healers, teachers, way-showers, bearers of sacred power, knowers of mysteries, mediators between the world of spirit and the world of form. In pre-patriarchical societies, women’s wisdom held healing power, and crone wisdom was the most potent of all. For nearly thirty thousand years, old women were strong, powerful sources of wisdom. Crones were respected and honored in their communities. Today, a crone is variously described as a woman who is post-menopausal, consciously aging, willing to acknowledge her shadow side. Crone is a term used to describe an ancient archetype, an aspect of the triple goddess (maiden/mother/crone), and the third phase of a woman’s life. When a woman is near, in, or past menopause, she is potentially a crone. The designation refers to a perspective or point of view rather than a specific age or physical event.

This crone stage is a great new journey for women as they get older, but I intend to youth, not age. The way I figure, I did the mother stage first. By the time I was five, I could cook simple meals, clean house, do laundry, feed babies their bottles, and change diapers. By the time I was eighteen, I’d changed more diapers than most women do in a lifetime. (Sounds unbelievable, I know, but it’s true. I seldom admit it, but I was the oldest girl in a very large family.)

A few years after I met the man with whom I would spend the middle third of my life, his health took a turn for the worse. I wasn’t much of a healer, but I was a stayer — I stayed with him until he died. I also helped out when my mother died. I’m now staying with my 96-year-old father. When this stage of my life’s journey is done --- this crone stage --- the only stage left for me is maidenhood. And so I am youthing. (Youth-ing, not you-thing.) I am doing what I can to foster a spirit of adventure, to challenge myself; to attempt new things; to look at life as if I am a child again, lost in its wonders.

A crone is someone who is willing to acknowledge her age, wisdom and power, but me, as I continue my mythic journey, I am acknowledging my youth, wonder, and mystery.

Whether I become a maiden or not, I’m looking forward to this next stage of my life. It will be interesting to see what I become.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Mrs. Owl Is Not The Only One With This Problem

 

 

 

We women of a certain age, often have these conversations with Significant Others:    

 

 

~~~~Upon arising from bed this a.m. (I had been up for hours), my husband treated me to this  conversation which, in its own way, is pretty funny.

 

        Him:    Why are you up so early?  (As he staggers towards the bathroom)

 

        Me:      The cat tried to eat my head.  Why are YOU up?

 

        Him:    (stopping in mid wobble)  Because I have to pee.

 

        Me:    Why didn’t you just go in my bathroom (which is right off the bedroom, and requires no more than about 3 steps)?

 

        Him:    I just like to do things differently every day.  (as he continues his stagger)

 

        Me:    (Sotto voce)  You’re weird.

 

        Him:    What? (from behind closed bathroom door)

 

        Me:    Nothing.

 

        Him:    You said I’m weird.

 

        Me:    (triple forte)  Why can you hear that and not hear anything I scream at you????

 

        Him:    What?

 

                                                *        *        *

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~Contributed by Anonymous, who, as we all know only too well, was a woman.

 

No More Pennies from Heaven...

No More Pennies from Heaven...

Just this week, on the occasion of my 45th birthday, I posted on Facebook that life is short and precious, and therefore one needs to seize every opportunity to slide, glide, bounce or roll obnoxiously into cronehood. The example I used was that one should, for instance, indulge in the luxury of counting small increments of change out piece by piece at the grocery store checkout, thus holding up the entire line and thoroughly pissing the Rushy McRushsons behind one off...

And later this same week came the public announcement that Canada is discontinuing the penny! That's right, as of this autumn, 2012, the penny will be withdrawn from circulation, thus shattering my future geriatric dreams of plaguing instant gratification fiends with angst, annoyance, and grocery queue rage! How, how shall I ever become an agent of chaos now?

Plan B was to perch near the front of city buses after I am too grizzled to drive, tapping a skull-topped shaman stick on the floor and reeking of garlic and patchouli oil while muttering esoteric woids and phrases. Maybe even imitating Alice Cooper and randomly screeching, "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!" following several hours of companionable silence. And yet all this may be thwarted, too, if shamanism, like yoga, continues along its surefire path into the cultural mainstream. Little pink-spandex-wearing shamanistas in Nikes will doubtless sprout up on every city bus in the next 20 years, shaking designer rattles and pointing out every person who has a wayward dead guy attached to them. Sigh... what's a girl to do?

Ah well, I'm sure I'll think of something. In the meantime I shall content myself with placing my bare hand on the belly of Mother Earth and reminding her that we long for spring. There's delight in that. I'm as tired of the snain as stale Twinkies in my high school lunch bag.

I go neither gently nor gracefully into Cronehood... but I go in the knowledge that pink spandex sucks. It sucks now, and it will suck in 20 years. And by the Goddess, there's some comfort in that!

Why Crone Henge?

Well, here we are, ladies--gray ladies, ladies with time travel privileges, about to add our nickel to the blogosphere.

Why Crone Henge? Well, most of us are Crones, exhausted by life, but not entirely--and we have a few things we'd like to say. After all, per Jimi Hendrix, we've been experienced, aged like single malt in a old sherry cask. The "henge" part is a bit trickey, as it comes from the Anglo-Saxon word hangen, or the gallow's tree, but it also vaguely carries a sense of something handmade, an object, sometimes made of earth or stone. In this case our henge is made of words. But I shouldn't run from the literal "gallows," either, for it was on just such an instrument that Odin did his best work.

We Crones want to talk about things we know--we, after all, ARE THE WOMEN, the ones who were there, the ones who have traveled from the middle of the last century and remember life before the computer, the cell phone, and the internet--before mandatory car seats and long before kids had no bedtimes. We've got pictures of our own human past to transmit.

We are all writers, and most of us have a strong interest in history, not just for the sake of names and dates and story-telling, but for the way history can help us understand our present, and how it might even give us a glimpse into our grandchildren's future. We'll ponder questions like "what is progress?" and further try to figure out if "progress" is what we imagine it to be, or if "progress" is just one of those jive words. Perhaps "change" is a better way to describe Crone Henge's driver. Change is the only constant in life, and we Crones have rung through plenty.

So, we'll be telling stories, sharing poetry or pictures, essays or prose, whatever seems appropriate. We'll discuss what is formally called "material history." How did folks actually live--for instance--in a medieval village--or, in an almost equally alien setting, in rural Pennsylvania during the 1920s?

What did those people know and what did they believe? This is the past which informs (and infects) our present in various ways, and is therefore worth talking about.

We'll also be telling tales which revolve around The Mysteries: magic, UFOs, crop circles, the theory of Atlantis, shapeshifters, vampires, the transmigration of souls, reincarnation and time travel. Our aim here is to break the boundaries of the dominant paradigm. We shall track down the creepy things that go bump in the night and drag them out from under our beds. Such phenomena are a bona fide piece of the puzzle of human experience and history, from the earliest civilizations to our "modern" today. Crones are traditionally experts in this lore. It just plain comes with the territory when the yard adjacent to yours is the cemetary.

So, Ladies: Onward, into the Fog!

--Juliet Waldron

www.julietwaldron.com