I was thinking this morning, as I potter around my house, why does the phrase Spinster or Crone bring up all those images of cranky, smelly old ladies with the social skills of a hedgehog and breath to match?
It just ain’t so, I tell ya. I ain’t so (note to self: you’ve run out of toothpaste).
Crone. Noun. ‘An ugly old woman.’Wikipedia
Lets think about this. In neopaganism, the crone represents wisdom, repose, death, and endings; represented by the waning moon. Well shit. That sounds depressing, right?
You might also interpret ‘Crone’ as just an ancient reference to a woman, late in years, who is no longer able to bear children. Yep, yep and yep. I am the crone.
This crone right here isn’t about to melt into the floor like that green witch on that old movie. There’s a vibrancy about me that I didn’t have twenty years ago. Neither while driving eighty-three miles to work every Monday, living out of a suitcase, or driving home on Fridays to sleep for two days and re-pack the case before doing it all over again. I didn’t have it, when I’d take a second turn around a hotel room service menu, or spend my Mondays complaining that I’d been given a hotel room with no air-conditioning. And I certainly didn’t have the wisdom to avoid those last few ‘boyfriends’.
Wisdom. It’s very subtle isn’t it. I didn’t wake up this morning and decide I was wise. It’s one of those things that you start to feel when you have distanced yourself from the hustle and bustle of the pre-crone days and taken time to reflect.
I realise that I know things, I feel things, and I am able to help and advise others in a real way. And I don’t mean ‘you should get that job’, or ‘you should buy that bikini’. I mean that I can connect and relate to other human beings, on a level not experienced before. They are drawn to my calmness and they sense my Wisdom. But I only share it if I’m asked for it. Not only have I achieved the serenity to look back at the shit in my life as being a rich experience, but I acknowledge that the experiences are mine, and mine alone.
I feel more radiant and energetic than I ever did. This crone has survived thus far. I made it. I now make my own choices. I choose. I no longer feel obliged to act, feel, speak, behave in any way other than my own. Pretty fierce stuff eh?
This seems to attract people who accept me unconditionally. Who hear me, not just listen. My tribe ‘gets me’. This crone doesn’t give a flying-monkey-fuck how many friends she doesn’t have – but the awesomeness of the ones that are. I don’t see them as often as she’d like to. But they get that. And I love them back for that.
I don’t ‘need’ anything. That whole rat-race thing, the socialising thing, the money thing, the drama thing, the work thing, the MEN thing. There’s nothing I need anymore. To me, this is the ‘repose’ part of the interpretation. I’ve slowed down. I’m so chilled, I’m about horizontal. Nothing really bothers me, because that’s a choice.
You could also say that this is ‘endings’ part. Not that I’ve gone off somewhere to die quietly, but that I’m just ‘done’ with the rat-race. If I start looking at little hovels in the woods, you will still visit me, right? (seriously, I did for a while).
I feel safe, loved. I care about the people that ‘get’ me. And darnit, that’s all that fucking matters, isn’t it?
My name is Samantha, and I’m a Crone.
Spinster. Noun. ‘An unmarried woman’
Yes yes. Those of you that know me will be grinning with glee.
This is an old, old word. Used as far back as the 1600’s and goes on to describe the stereotype as fussy, undesirable, prissy or repressed. Again I say,
First of all, who says I should marry? Who says I even believe in it? In ancient Rome (when everything with a pulse was copulating), the idea of marriage was considered odd. It was largely a thing done for political maneuvering, to align houses and families to amass power and wealth.
Like the crone suggests above, I’m already wealthy. Nor do I have any interest in political maneuvering (I haven’t had a TV for five years). Most of all, being an ‘object’ to be paired off for these purposes, is repugnant isn’t it?
After ancient Rome, the idea of Christianity and of the original humans, Adam and Eve became ‘fashionable’. It was considered ‘Godly’ to marry. Single women were excluded and harassed to marry, and then looked upon with pity if they didn’t.
Me? Listen. The spinster in me wants to do ‘bed angels’ in her gargantuan super-king size bed. The spinster in me wants to flop around in her jammies til noon with a bed head and a crinkled face. I want to go out when I want to go out. I want to stay in when I want to stay in. I want to keep my pookey habits. I don’t want to explain myself to anyone. I want to light scented candles and incense until I could choke Vulcan.
None of that suggests that I wouldn’t throw Gerard Butler around the bedroom like a rag doll (but honestly, Gerard, stop calling me). Perhaps I’m too set in my ways now, and what’s wrong with that? I’m fierce, I’m assured, I’m successful. I’ve literally had guys turn me down for a second date because, and I quote, “you’re too successful”. Wait, what?
I’ve had some amazing experiences with men, some awful ones. Men, I get it. I love ’em. But more than that, I love people in general. I don’t need ‘one of my own’. There’s nothing I need. I’m already loved and cared about. I’d rather spend my energy loving and caring back.
My name is Samantha, and I’m a Spinster.
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