Family Dinner

A new poem.  Don't let the innocuous title mislead you; this is not an easy poem.  The theme will not be unfamiliar, though, if you've been reading this blog or know me at all.

Last night, family dinner –

            filet of sole with lemon,

            fresh corn from the farmers’ market,

            strawberry, tomato and basil bread salad –

the husband cracked his tired joke –

            I don’t know what day of the week it is –

            Kiss my ass, I’m retired!

And the adult son responded

            with eye-rolling disgust

            and a sharp retort.

I understand.

I used to work the soul-wearying,

            regimented 8 to 5 -

Year after year, hurried, stressed, relentless,

            no matter that the work was good work

            and chosen.

But now, the next day,

            after a night’s rest and some slow laps

            in the pool at the Y,

A response forms beyond last night’s

            head-nodding sympathy.

There is a price you pay for this

            slice of leisure time, this

            rest from labor in the world’s marketplace.

I will tell you what it is.

The body begins to break down,

            for some seriously, for others slowly,

            but relentlessly.

You wake up in the morning and immediately assess

            the state of the joints, muscles, digestion,

            headache, mood, whatever.

Every day.

Energy is no longer so abundant.

There is a growing list of things

            you will never do again.

Your parents have left this world, and so

            you are on the front lines

            of the confrontation with eternity.

You wonder if you will die first, or

            if your spouse will wing off, leaving you pierced

            with mourning and fear.

Time no longer feels long and languorous.

Helplessly, you watch the days pass.

            Another night, reading aloud to the husband

            from a book on Tibet.

Another morning, writing in your studio downstairs.

Privilege, yes.

Gratitude braided with angst.

So, yes, we have the luxury

            of a pension and health insurance.

But the clock is ticking, the sun rises

            and the sun sets,

and we edge ever closer

            to the unyielding abyss.

I know - I seem to be obsessed with issues around aging.  My friend Jane Keene and I are preparing a series of events for women who are also thinking about such things.  Here's the flyer for the first one.

Jane Keene and Maya Spector Present:

The Flame of the Wise Woman

In the first of this four part series, over the next year we will

re-imagine who we are at this elder stage of our lives.

Using mythology, ritual, writing and good conversation, we will consider how we tend both inner and outer flames

and affirm our passion and purpose.

When: July 31^st, 2016 from 2:00pm-5.00pm

Where: Private home in Oakland; reserve your space

and we will send you the location

Cost: $20.00 in advance or $25.00 at the door

Paypal: magnificentthrumenopause@gmail.com;

or send check to: 164 Robles Way #143 Vallejo CA 94591

(please include your email address)

Please RSVP as soon as possible as space is limited.

Jane Keene keene615@gmail.com 

or

Maya Spector mayaspector@hotmail.com

The Stages of Cronedom

I've been working on my event for women on aging and the crone archetype (there are still a few spaces - see my previous posts or Facebook event called Going to Hel: Aging and the Crone Archetype), and I've discovered a few poems I'd forgotten that I'd written.  One of the reasons I started blogging was to put these poems out so that they wouldn't get lost in deep storage.  So, here is one I dug out:

First,

you are a novice elder.

Monthly bleeding 

finally ends, 

bringing both relief 

and sadness.

If you are fortunate,

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 breathe deeply

and promise yourself

to accept it all.

Next,

you discover

that there is  

a middle-elder phase.

You begin

to identify yourself

as old. 

Sometimes.

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

tug at your soul.

You allow

your gifts

to flow

unobstructed.

You care

less and less

what others

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 will manage

to bless and serve

the young.

Later,

you move into

true old age.

Not yet having 

arrived there, 

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.

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.

Maya Spector

Going to Hel: Aging and the Crone Archetype

Because aging and mortality issues have been so much on my mind, I’ve thought for quite a while about putting on an evening event for women exploring the theme.  I've finally collected a story, some poems and my thoughts enough to give it a shot.  The email should go out within the next few days (but info is below).

Here is a rough draft of a new poem.  It, too, is called Going to Hel.

There is a choice now

(Perhaps there is always a choice).

This culture nonchalantly tosses

its old ones cloaks or masks of invisibility.

What it doesn’t know

is that these are Hel’s tokens,

allowing elders access to her dark realm.

What do the young know

of Her fiery cauldron of rebirth?

Some think to banish

their elders to oblivion,

to lonely houses of isolation

or the sour halls of old age homes,

warehousing the seemingly weak

and irrelevant.

Out of sight, out of mind.

But if we old ones 

do not despair,

we can disappear down

into the shamanic school

of the underworld goddess.

Hey, let’s go trickster all the way!

Let’s refuse to choose oblivion.

We can use the disguise

to our own advantage.

Most of them will never find out

that their curse has become our gift.

At least, not until the mantle

falls on them.

And we know how fast that happens.

Going to Hel:

Aging and the Crone Archetype

Hel by Susan Seddon Boulet

An evening of story, poetry, conversation

and ritual for women entering, in,

or interested in the elder phase of life

Saturday, February 27th, 7:30 P.M.,

685 ½ Fairmount Avenue, Oakland

Pre-registration required mayaspector@hotmail.com

$20 donation in advance

(by check or Paypal to barry@madnessatthegates.com)

$25 at the door