It Begins With a Call (Part 30): Sitting in the Elder's Seat

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt - oh, happy illusion -
that I had a beehive
in my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old bitterness.

                  - Antonio Machado

We had dinner not long ago with some friends, and the after-dinner conversation rolled around to times we may have hurt others and the times we have felt hurt or betrayed.  It was interesting timing for me because I’d just worked a dream in my dream group in which a group of 13 or 14 men I knew all knocked on my door to serve me with legal papers, and I felt terribly hurt. 

What wound up intriguing me about this conversation was the question of why we continue to carry episodes of old hurts.  I can think of some situations from 40 years ago (at least) in which my hurt feelings, if not fresh, still spring up when I remember the triggering events.  Most of these concern friendships, and especially the loss of friendships.  There are other memories of feeling under-appreciated, especially in work environments, that I can almost brush off with a smile now.  Why do we hold on to some painful memories?  It’s almost as though I (I won’t speak for anyone else) keep them, resurrect them from time to time, in order to feel righteous and wronged.  And then there are the people who used to be friends who resent me for reasons either real or at least real to them.  

What can we do, or do we even want to do, to let the old hurts go?  In Machado's dream, the bees transform the bitterness into sweetness and the container for the sweetness.  What are these bees, and how do I find them?  Can you forgive simply by wanting to forgive?  Can I let go just because I’d like to let go?

Maybe better questions to ask myself are:  What do I get out of holding on to bitterness and hurt?  What could these emotions teach me, if I really considered them? 

I think this strikes me now because I am taking seriously my mandate to see the glass half-full and change those neural pathways. I know I will fail if I simply try to pretend that everything is just hunky-dory, singing “La la la la la!” while skipping down the road.  That has always been my complaint about New Age thinking.  Everything is not sweetness and light.  I want the change to be real.

Asking the feeling what it has to teach me, I hear that I always wanted to be seen, loved and valued.  But more than that, I have wanted to be special, the special one.  It’s not easy admitting this.  If I blame the other person for not recognizing my specialness, for not appreciating me enough, I continue to hold onto a distorted view of my place in the world.  It’s not that I don’t believe that we are all special, carrying our unique gifts and talents that need to be given.  But we need to just give those gifts, no matter how they are received. 

I was fortunate and blessed to gather a group of close women friends to help me acknowledge this year’s big birthday.  Preparing to turn 70, I wanted to consciously face this turning.  To embrace it.  To, as my dear friend Leona used to say, sit in the elder’s seat.  I hope the ritual was useful for my friends; it was powerful for me.  I knew when the tears came as I offered wishes and blessings to each woman that something definitely worked, at least for me.  As an elder, I want to bless.  I know how much we all need to be seen.  None of us ever gets enough appreciation, right?  But for true elders, it is the seeing and blessing of others that is the real work.

As Michael Meade has spoken about the need for us each to turn away from the wounds of our childhood and face the door we will all eventually go through, I realize that part of that for me is letting go of those old stories, the old bitterness.  I don’t have time for it.  And it inhibits my ability to see others.  I also offer apologies to anyone I have unwittingly offended.  All of this is important and necessary for me now to truly see the glass half-full.

I have to say my 70^th birthday was probably my best ever.  My children gave me the most amazing day of treats followed by an incredible surprise party.  Then my dream group celebrated with me on my actual birthday.  And then came my ritual.  I feel well-fed on all levels and hope I can be true to following this call of elderhood service.

Thanks to Janis for the photo!

It Begins with a Call: The Work of an Elder (Part 10)

And the wind in the body moves again.  Pancreas issue handled, I am now waiting, again, to see a cardiologist.  Palpitations.  Skipped heartbeats. Again, I think, “Am I still in the underworld?” 

This is not the life of the elder I pictured for myself when I was younger.  I always saw myself in a garden, content, long gray braid hanging down my back, attending to my herbs and vegetables and flowers.  Peaceful.  Wise.  How innocent I was!

But this is what I need to do:

The Work of an Elder

When the years pile up

and what is visible ahead

is the dark doorway into

the otherworld, it is time

to drill down to the old childhood wound,

to lift it up out of the soil of the past,

hold it in the light of noon time,

cradle it in soft arms, rock it to a gentle sleep,

and let it breathe in the naked air.

It is time to take up your staff

and walk with determination,

with grace, if you’re lucky,

towards that portal,

without hiding your burden.

When you meet others,

bless them.

When you fall,

rely on helping hands to

lift you back up.

There is the pride of

work well done, and

there is the pride of

armor and walls.

You know which one

you want to wield.

There is no need to hurry.

Only the need to persevere.

I had a psychic reading.  She saw me needing to remove obstacles in order to see the big picture.  According to her, I am a stabilizing force but have been hurt by energies that are not mine.  What is the big picture, I wonder?  It must be that the invisible is real, that Spirit is real. My karmic work, she said, is to trust Spirit.  She told me that my fear is an automatic response and that in actuality I’ve been pretty fearless.  That's a new perspective!

I am spending a lot of time at home, and a lot of time alone (even if my husband or others are around).  I don’t seem to want to go anywhere or do much of anything.  The world’s a mess and so am I.  I do love my home, though.

Part of the trouble with looking at this as a “healing story” is that this implies a linear progression; there should be a beginning, a middle, and an end.  But what I’d like to consider is a cyclical model, a spiraling cycle.  Isn’t that more how nature works?  I once heard Ram Dass say, “We never lose our neuroses.  We just lose interest in them.”  That has always stuck with me.  We cycle around and around, hopefully coping better as we go.

(Note:  This was originally written a year and a half ago.)

The Stages of Cronedom

We're starting to plan this year's Day of the Dead ritual, and boy, does it seem like the community needs it this year!  Between the fires, the drought, climate change, the crazy state of the world (and this presidential election insanity) and the endless stream of school shootings, not to mention personal  losses and griefs, reasons for needing a grief ritual abound.  So, consider coming if laying down some of the heaviness and burden of grief you're carrying would be of benefit to you.

The season's inward focus and the rapid approach of the year's end brought a poem this morning.  Oh,  I just can't seem to help but be immersed in mortality issues these days.  In my morning pages, I wound up musing about our elder years.  It's becoming clear to me that "old age" isn't just one concise period toward the end of life.  There are stages that I, at least, am moving through.  So, here it is... as usual, a little raw and most likely in need of revision (that's what I love about blogging - you get to experiment without feeling as though it has to be perfect).

First, you are a novice elder.

Monthly bleeding finally ends,

bringing both relief

and sadness.

If you are lucky,

you receive a crone initiation

and a welcoming.

You begin to look at older friends

in a new way.

You study how they move,

how they rest,

how they persist in their arts.

Then, you move into

early cronehood.

You stop coloring your hair.

You grandparent.

If you are lucky,

you retire from your day job.

Because you live within youth culture,

you become invisible to many.

You wince at your image in the mirror,

hating the new lines etched

into your face and your sagging skin.

Then, you exhale deeply

and promise yourself to

accept it all.

Next, you surprise yourself

by finding that there is a

middle-elder phase.

You begin to identify yourself

as old.  Sometimes.

Inherent weaknesses in the body

begin to clarify themselves

into symptoms.

It is easy to get lost 

and discouraged now.

You realize that you will never

go backpacking again.

You visit your acupuncturist and

chiropractor.  Often.

If you are even a little wise,

you turn inward and to

whatever gods or spirits

call you.

You allow your gifts

to flow unobstructed.

You care less and less

what people think of you.

You begin to lose 

(or lose more) people.

You understand how much grief

there will be from now on.

You wonder how you can

bless and serve the young.

Later, you move into

true old age.

Not having arrived there yet,

I cannot speak of it

with any authority.

I suspect that the work 

will be to learn more

about  acceptance and

about staying open-hearted,

should I reach this  stage.

That opening to the life-force

and also the death-force

will be what is required.

I hope that I live long enough

to hold all things –

to love my beloveds -

to bless the youngers –

and to meld into the earth.

The Secrets of Elders

I've been working on another exercise from Writing for Your Life; it involves a fairy tale that enchanted one as a child.  There were several I could think of, but The Twelve Dancing Princesses was the first one that leaped into my mind.  So, off I went down the secret staircase and through the trees with leaves of gold, silver and diamonds.  (If you don't know or remember the story and want to read it, you can find a version here.)

Deena Metzger has a number of suggestions for working with the story.  I've imagined it from the point of view of the youngest daughter and from that of the old woman in the woods.  I've considered the deeper meanings of the story, what initiations it implies, and what the props of the tale might indicate.  It has been intriguing, as I've never truly considered the significance of the story.  What is most compelling to me is the figure of the old woman.  Why would she help the soldier become the next king?  How does she just happen to have a cloak of invisibility to bestow, and how does she know where the princesses go at night?

I began to see her very much as I see Gaia in the Persephone story.  Gaia creates the  fascinating flower for Hades as the means for him to capture the young goddess  Why would Gaia do that?  In all my studies of the myth, I never found an explanation for this, so I came up with one of my own.  Gaia saw the big picture.  She understood that Persephone needed to be in the underworld, and so she helped get her there.  This is far from a sentimental decision, but rather one that will cause great suffering.  However, it is ultimately necessary, and it places Perephone (who was originally an underworld goddess before the patriarchal culture took over) where she belongs.

So, I see the old woman of the woods as a Gaia-like figure.  Perhaps the kingdom, which has recently been at war, needs the wounded and experienced soldier to be the next king, rather than another uninitiated and privileged young prince.  Perhaps the princesses need to grow up.  Could they really go on dancing their shoes off every night forever?  Still, it is sad to see the end of their time in the magical world under the earth, as it is sad to see the innocent Persephone dragged down to her darker underworld.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know I've been dwelling quite a bit on issues of aging.  The old woman archetype has been and continues to be important to me.  May Sarton's poem When a Woman Feels Alone has been working me for a few years now.  Strength, laughter, endurance - these are the words of wisdom from the old woman.  Here is my take on why we need her:

There is an initiation

you must receive if

you wish to know

the secrets of elders,

but few have received it,

so you must ask the right ones.

What they tell you

will make your walk into

old age bearable.

I cannot tell you the secret,

but I can say this:

Seek that initiation and

you will lose your fear.

May we all ask the right ones and get that initiation!