The Old One

Author's Note

She stops and mutters to herself, then cackles at what she said. Her hair is long, wild and gray, and her nails dirty and broken. Bright eyes full of wisdom borne of madness peer out of a face lined with much anguish, grief and pain, but also mirth and laughter.

She is the old woman of the forest and the grandmother of us all. She is the hag who was once the huntress—brave, beautiful and tall. Sorrow borne of man broke her and left her bent and gnarled. The burdens placed upon her shoulders and man’s heavy yolk upon her neck have stooped her once proud back—yet knowledge remains, knowledge of the ages and the history of womankind.

We see her in the city streets and look away as she pushes her cart through the dark alleys. We look away because we don’t want to see. We hear her muttering and cackling and close our ears. We close them because we do not want to listen. She tries to get our attention and we hurry away. We run because we do not want to know.

Enter her crazy hovel and step into her world—she has things to teach us that we are afraid to learn. To survive we must learn for in not learning we stagnate and die. In not learning, we remain ignorant to the pitfalls and dead ends of the world of men.

It is a hard lesson to find that many dreams die there—it is a harder one to learn that some are mutated into nightmares too horrible to fathom. The grandmother knows all of this for she has seen much death and horror. Look into her face and see what she has seen. Look into her eyes—into the depths of her pain and know how she came to be where she is.

Look into my eyes, child, and see the paths I’ve taken. Look into my soul, mein Kleiner Madchen, and see the traps before you. Take my hand, little sister, and I will lead you past the dangers.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I find this quite interesting and a bit mystical. An old woman as "mother Earth" , it seems.

[Mother Maggie]

It is that and more. It is spirit of the Divine Feminine in all of us. It is the old woman who has seen her dreams and the dreams of others sacrificed to the gods of patriarchial society. It is the old one whose mind has been bent too far. This prose piece came to me after I read "Women Who Run with the Wolves" a wonderful book by a feminist author whose name i can't recall at the moment (My copy is out on loan at the moment). I recommend it as it's a wonderful read.

Namaste and Blessed Be