The Crone Years

When I saw the photo I cried. Walking away from the camera, turning to wave; oh I looked happy at the time, but now I could see myself from behind and I was shocked to the core by the size of my arse. Like, I literally cried hot angry tears every time I looked at it, for days. It was 2007, and I was forty. My daughters were five and seven, and it would be a few more years before they educated me on my great fortune. Big bums are in, they told me. You’re lucky if you have one, it’s very sexy. Slay girl.

I found that photo only a couple of years ago, and dang if my arse doesn’t look fabulous. What the heck was wrong with me back then? That day I was walking the Women’s Mini Marathon, with a stick, because I had such chronic fatigue. I was a woman who got up out of a sick bed to walk for charity. I didn’t finish it (more tears) but you know what? I gave it a go. I tried. Slay.

I love that these days if I say, "Does my bum look big in this?" One of my daughters will say,
"Sure does bitch!" And we’ll high five. It’s not that they have found the confidence that I gained as the years rolled on. It’s that they celebrate me, because I know my worth. I spent years teaching them low self esteem by example. Now in my crone years, I have some making up to do. I owe it to them.

It helps that I got my energy back eventually. The doctors said my fatigue was stress induced and maybe it was, but I figured out that it was wheat and gluten induced too. (Bread is a bastard, and sugar is a word I can’t print here.) The older I get, the more impressed I am with myself. I’m no super woman. I don’t lift weights, I should exercise more, but I sorted out my diet (carnivore-ish), dropped some weight and got my life back. I’ve never been happier in my fifty-eight year old skin. My God when I think of the time I wasted worrying about myself in my twenties. My twenties! I had so much but I couldn’t see it. Give me the mind and attitude of a fifty year old over the body and beauty of a twenty year old any day. This is the place to be. This, quite literally, is the life.

It also helps that we’re actually getting a summer in Ireland this year (it’s not always a given) I let the sun warm my face. I wear little or no make up. I value my mane of hair, my hard working hands, my crooked teeth, my great big arse. When I get up in the mornings and I look in the mirror, I know I’m in my crone years and I think I have never looked so beautiful. This is what owning the truth of you looks like. Why would I put makeup on that?

I’ve spent some time thinking about this. Because I’m not pretending to feel this way. When I look at my mascara-less eyes I see my Wise Woman looking out. Her blood is in my veins. It has been drip feeding me for years. We smile often at each other.
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It’s weird, I said to my husband the other night. Nothing has changed. I still have the same eyes, the same lips, the same face. When I say I feel at my most beautiful, I mean it. And then it dawned on me: I’m not comparing myself to anyone. I have found a way to let go of that yearning for longer lashes, a flatter stomach, a face like a celebrity star. I look at myself and I see not what I could make better; I see the only face God gave me and it’s perfect. Acknowledging the crone is not giving in to aching joints and tired bones.
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The Crone has always been here, and she brings peace. Sometimes, when the moon is bright, I like to let my daughters see me dance with her. Together we can shine a light on what it is to really and truly love yourself.

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