But--You Aren’t Old! (A Crone Complaint.)

 

 

 The author with her Bill Boston Bike...1979

A sweet young college girl made this remark to me at the end of a Senior Zumba class. She, freshly made member of the gym, had gone up front to complain to the instructor that she had “barely broken a sweat,” and that she was “used to a higher level of intensity” because “I’m a dancer, you know.” I’d divined what was coming from her manner of approach to the instructor, who was new on the job herself, but I also knew that I, personally, was raining sweat, and that I’d had to go to the floor on one occasion to perform the exercises which usually move my bulging discs back into place. I wasn’t about to have her barge in and think she could tell the instructor what to do. In the first place, this was called a “Gold” class, which, in this gym’s particular parlance, means that it is supposed to be geared to older people, people who are less physically fit, and to Zumba beginners, who need to learn the steps.

I touched the instructor on the shoulder and said “I thought this class was great!” And to the sweet young thing, now looking cross, I said, “This gym has almost no classes geared to old people, and I’m really grateful to them for providing this one. It is identified as a ‘gold’ class on the schedule for a reason, because it is supposed to be slower.”   The doe eyes regarded me with only slightly veiled contempt. “But--You’re not old!” she declared, trying on a smile, as if by simply giving me what she took for a compliment she could make me see things her way.

In return, I said nothing, but my mind seethed with possible retorts, my first choice being, “I’ll change bodies with you for a day and then you can tell me whether I’m ‘old’ or not.” Instead, I just patted the instructor again on the shoulder, said “thanks for a great class,” smiled at Ms. Slim-Toned-and-Fit, and remarked that there were plenty of hard, high speed classes available, and left the field.

The whole interchange was typical, in a world which worships youth almost as much as it worships the almighty dollar.   The young critter expected to get her way with a little sweet talk. It’s her right, you see, simply because she’s young. She was also quite certain that saying “but, you’re not old!” would please me and put me on her side in the matter, simply because of the Joan Rivers type vanity she’d assumed I must have.

I don’t, though. Truth is stronger than vanity or the desire to please a pretty child. I am ‘old’ and I know it. I had several bad bicycle falls (dog attacks) in the '70’s and now I pay the price in arthritis and joint pain. I typed for a living for forty years, and have the office worker’s bad back/neck to prove it. I’ve nearly died and been cut and pasted back together again-twice. My physical self is no longer seamless or supple, and I have bouts of pain for no apparent reason. This is the reality with which I live, and although I don’t usually go around bitching to the world at large, it’s real. I take ibuprofen and get on with it, just like everyone else in my age group. (I'm lucky to be alive!) Still, I’d like to think that I can go to a few gym classes and have a little fun dancing, along with others of my age who are also neither fit nor young anymore.

That shouldn't be too much to ask.

 

~~Juliet Waldron

 

Historical novels with Grit and Passion @

CRONE MOON RISING

The moon protrudes from the night sky
like the jaundiced white of an eye
or a single breast of the Goddess
engorged
but cold and windowless
for Luna wanes
the dominion of the Crone
Impervious Athena
Who would approach that stony orb now
in search of nectar?


Mother, how shall I find You
swathed in Your red sari
crouched among the bodies
of demons You have slain
All-knowing, omniscient Lotus
my every action dangles like a curse from Your waist
From the river of Your ancient womb
will you feed me the elixir of Morpheus
for my memories are tainted with gasoline
and all I can smell is saffron burning

Crone Imprecations & Sermons

Thanksgiving is here, and we stand at the gateway to the Dark Time. Time for a feast, my friends, before the winter, the freezing and starving throws itself, wolf-like, upon us…

That’s how it used to be. Now we have so much, we roll in gluttony and sloth, stuffing down the turkey, veg and potatoes, covering it all with heaps of gravy and ad-impregnated bouts of TV football. We continue our feast of conspicuous consumption with “Black Friday” and a day of mall-ease, staggering between over-heated stores weighed down with packages, plastic card in hand.  All the time we are striving to hold back the growing emptiness, the ancient terror of Winter, of Dark and Snowed In.

What kind of crazy world have we made when we are obliged to buy things just to keep the economy “healthy”? When did we stop being people and become “consumers?” And, oh Great Mother Earth, why do we believe we need all this stuff? On the macro scale, I fear we’re living in a sandcastle . As the bumper sticker says, “Insatiable is unsustainable,” and the tide, inevitably, will come in. 

Let's remember "Thanks" and "Giving." Instead of taking refuge in the temporary relief provided by a consumerist feeding frenzy, let’s stave off the dark with our family and friends. And let's remember to give: reach out to those with whom you’ve lost touch, send a letter to a lonely relative, visit a shut-in, drop money into the red kettle or adopt and love some sad lost soul from The Humane Society. Help make dinner at the homeless shelter.  Don't pass so much judgment upon those who don't share your beliefs or financial status. Resist the temptation to spoil your young ones by buying every little thing they desire. It’s not good for them, not in the long run, this effortless satiation of every whim.  Their adult life won't be like that.

Say a heart-felt thank-you, (not just the standard ‘thank you Lord for our food”prayer,) but a moment of  remembrance dedicated to the turkey who gave his life for you.  Later, sit down and write a letter to the editor or to your congress person about the evils of factory farming. Realize that meat should not be “cheap,” it should be healthy. The living, breathing cattle, pigs and poultry—our warm blooded relatives--should be treated with respect and consideration before they become dinner.

No matter how many good deeds we do, however, know that the old fear will still be lurking.  It’s down deep in the heart of everyone, and maybe it’s not just about Dark and Winter.  Whatever we do to face that silence, we will all, inevitably, have to confront it--the great, devouring Black Hole.  All the stuff in the world cannot fill it and no matter how fast we run, we will be swallowed in the end. 

Om Krim Kali Ma! Down to the cremation ground beside the sacred river...

So, don't spend so much time at the mall or munching by the TV. Get up early and watch the sun rise. Listen attentively to what the birds say. Go out and rake the yard before the power tool guys get out and destroy your form of Communion. Nature--sky, clouds, trees, sun, rain, our kin, our fellow creatures—these are our real treasures, the eternity-in-the-now which makes life worth living, which shines our little, conscious candle into the face of all-conquering night.