Crone Wisdom

My elder. My self. If I ever were to need council, I would hope to find this woman depicted here. Perhaps if I am lucky, I will become her.

“So tell me where it hurts.” said the wise one, settling deeper into her chrome and leatherette chair in the sun dappled kitchen. The open window allowed the soft sounds of the morning to spill into the room providing background music to their shared reverie. Before her sat the defeated visage of a girl in the throes of something sad and most unkind. Eyes framed in deep lines; kind and gentle, but with the faded sheen of advancing years, scanned the form of the one before her. She noted a slight defeated listing of shoulders, a juncture of ankles crossed in an effort to contain, and soft hands resting in seeming nonchalance; made a lie by the tightening of skin and muscle which spoke of tensions held in check.

“So tightly contained and managed.” she mused. “So much within threatening to spill over.” Would that this girl just release, allowing what she tried to hide to simply ebb; spilling itself onto and along the seams of the faded linoleum squares of the kitchen floor. Where it could then be cleaned and scrubbed and made unimportant. This was her wish for her - this broken girl.

The old woman reached out with the strings of her heart, prodding and poking in order to find the soft and bruised spots, covered up by hardened determination and self-sufficiency. She sighed at this child of contradictions. So much boldness and strength was here. She alone knew the cracks and the breaks that were hidden beneath the surface, and within the deeper layers below. She knew this child as well as she knew herself. Always had.

The brown eyed girl shifted slightly in discomfort. “It hurts everywhere, and nowhere. All at once.” she said softly. There was an inflection of defeat in the tone that only the old woman could hear. “I did it good to myself.” she continued. “I asked for this. And now that I am here, I hate that I did. I hate myself for it.” With this a lone tear slipped from the girls eye, and made a slow trail down a cheek stained red with shame.

“Nobody signs up to get hurt purposefully.” scoffed the old woman. “It just happens sometimes. Such is the way of loving.” she continued. Placing her hand over one of the girl’s, she looked into the girls eyes with empathy, “We can no more control the hurt than we can those that bring it to us. Sometimes it just comes of its own accord. Just as does the love. It’s a price we may or may not have to pay for the good we get of it.”

Deep within the girl, something shifted softly, and she moved in her chair slightly, allowing room for it to settle. Slowly she released the breath she was unaware she’d been holding. She was here. Safe... finally. Able to be herself genuinely and one hundred percent. It felt so good to simply be this, and nothing more. To give herself room to feel without having to judge herself. Here she could pull out everything she held back and lay it out on the cracked and peeling kitchen table. In a jumble or in tidy piles, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that in this place she felt safe. She felt loved and was given honor without question, motive or intent. Here was where she could feel she was seen without being frightened by what that may mean to others.