The Mythology of the Crone as the interpreter, holder of the key to mankind’s future ..and womankind’s!

 

     
 

Tis spring and season to begin
a group of flavor new.
add girls to wise women's group
  as crones have work to do. 

A teaching circle for younger minds
to make them see s
weet reason.
As child
ren staying dumb so long
is not the Universe PLEASING!

Legend and mythology concentrate on God as a MALE Patriarch, an Emperor, Warrior, Inseminator of Ideas, Judge, Philosopher and Punisher.. All the religions on earth are male-based, and mandate linear behavior and punish those who veer as sinful. Mythology tells us very little about the aspects and wisdom of the female Deity, or God as a KWAN YIN, a Goddess of compassion, love, succor and seduction and other gal things: LOVE, sex, raising babies and the whole blessed business of being the distaff to MAN.

To find the FEMALE lineage, one has to go back to ancient legend, scour the paragraphs to find even a brief mention of God as a Woman. But there, we read that there are three aspects or faces to this FEMALE CREATOR.

 

STAGE ONE. God or the Deity has an aspect we do not expect and rarely see. It is THE MAIDEN, a girl who is beautiful and seductive enough that  men desire and court her if she wants them to. If she doesn’t want them to, they cannot see her. She is invisible to them. But if she flirts with a man, he is instantly smitten with  love and burns with lust to possess her.

 

In Mythology, the perfect MAIDEN does not exploit that lust. She is a genuine friend to all, men included but she is not like the polite girls of the town. She sneaks out of her Father’s house to roam the city with her men friends, an activity which is forbidden to her. She doesn’t like to lie or dissemble but her parents must remain ignorant of this pursuit. The maiden knows that sex and romance will carry her to distant shores that she needs to see. She can infiltrate the most luxurious palaces of the City, unavailable or hidden to her when she was a Virgin living in her father’s house. And she can be ferried to far parts of the world by men in love with her.

 

As an adventuress, whether slut and vixen or traveling philosopher, she roams many cities, all around the world, always at the side of her latest lover who is always a rich nobleman. The maiden learns all the secret ways of men, including their modes of governing, ruling, exploiting that the upper classes use against the happy ones. She knows that the Rich are never happy and the happy are never rich and tries to solve this riddle. That is the answer she seeks in her travels.

 

So the maiden tastes of romantic love which allows her to penetrate the mysterious paradox of the creation of God’s LIFE ELIXIR, created only at the moment when yin and yang join and fuse. This most hypnotic of essences is available only to courting lovers and only when their love is absolutely true. 

A few drops of this perfumed, rare magical fluid can change anyone from child to adult, from gross to divine. It is said that a wife can get it from her husband and return to him a source of eternal youth. But as the maiden is unmarried and has risked harm stealing away from her father’s protection, she gets the elixir without any protection of home and fire. She becomes a wild child, alone, addicted to the elixir, loved and ultimately abandoned as the ultimate thrill of the male is to plunder and abandon. Never to be tamed. Thru ecstasy first, then the resulting sorrow. The maiden learns this lesson and many others about the ways of men. 

 

STAGE TWO, THE MOTHER- In mythology, the GODDESS appears next as a mother in her mid-thirties. She is seen variously as the mother Mary, raising Jesus or Tara, the Tibetan goddess of Mercy or Kwan-Yin, the Chinese goddess of compassion. She raises little Gods and Goddesses and has exquisite children. She moves like a mother duck through the town with her enchanting little tribe trailing behind her. She knows much about children, their care, feeding and upbringing. We consult her when we have problems with our children. We hire her to cook for our parties or entertain our guests with her palm readings.

 

STAGE THREE, THE CRONE- And last, you see her, albeit much more infrequently, as a crone. An eccentric country woman with deep knowledge of the city, which she has put behind her. Visitors look at this lonely life and are stunned. How can she not be depressed alone on this mountain. Then they see that she has gusto, wit and an active brain. She’s never bored. She would find the city, its merchants, streets, entertainments boring. She is never bored left alone with her own mind and her PC.

 

Visitors tell her everything about their most intimate life and note the candid wisdom which she shares in a way that makes the professional head doctors in the city look anemic and constipated. No fifty minute hour here. “Tell me your life story, she says. And they settle into their chair for several hours drinking delicious coffee, and eating her home baked bread with her amazing home made jam on it.

 

Sometimes women make the mistake of bringing their Men to the hut but men generally are instantly allergic to her for she has not the tact and silent sweetness of the maiden or the mother. There’s no time for that pretense in her universe. The crone is utterly candid and cackles and laughs often at the expense of pompous men who’ve spent years building up a ‘serious’ persona.. The crone’s wit is subversive, dangerous to men and they are uneasy when she is in the room as a cat is confronted by a snake. Plus she talks political dissent, deliberate disobedience, anarchy. The hair on the man’s neck raises uneasily in her presence.

Luckily, the man doesn’t have to come back twice. His wife won’t make him. For one thing, the crone lives far from the town, for another her husband is angry and restless for days afterwards like a male cat, switching his tail.

 

The crone doesn’t care if visitors are infrequent. She raises many odd crops, works like a farmer in the field with no man to help her. Her hut sits in an extraordinary fenced garden, every inch landscaped so that it produces medicinal herbs, fruits, vegetables, food, jams, even small domestic animals. Doing this work, her hands have become weathered. How to tell a crone from an ordinary farmer’s wife? A farmer’s wife will not work at midday as the sun would make her wrinkled and she still has a man at home to satisfy with physical beauty. 

 

The crone cares not a whit if the sun scorches her but the health of her brain IS important so she wears a huge brimmed hat so that the top of her head is always shaded from the sun. When you look at her face, it as if she were the MAIDEN still, but when you look at her arms and hands, you know she is older than Methuselah, older than anyone you ever met.

 

These are the three faces of the FEMALE DEITY. Maiden, mother Crone but she is always the goddess, the eternal woman, all knowing, inscrutable but highly consultable!

 

At every stage she is the watcher, observer, learner, student, philosopher, teacher, compassionte listener, talker and sharer, meeting with humanity eager to pass on the knowledge. What comes in must go out. If it doesn’t, you’re constipated, she says and she cackles, disappearing then to her cottage, her monastery, her hermitage, her miserable shack.

 

That is the other way you will know the crone face of the deity. By the time she is the crone stage, she has left the city with no husband or ties to her child. “They’re cooked. They’re out living their lives, they don’t need me any more. Didn’t raise them to need me.” Mom lives somewhere in the far out woods. One may catch sight of her, see an old farm woman with gray hair, you run after her, but she goes behind a tree, turns around and swirls into your path, her huge cape flowing. Her face is the face of a young woman but her hands are ancient, withered. What do you seek? What can you teach me, she asks. And if you can’t teach me and just want to consult me, what can you pay ? And then she asks you to forget she said that. Come have some coffee, bread and jam. And you follow her back to the hut. The kitchen, hearth, living room are all one room. It is comfortable. Sheaves of grain hang from the wall. Seed pods in jars on every surface. She serves the food. You don't see the old woman when you look at her face. She appears as the mother you always wanted. She offers a basket of food that she grew, sweet peaches, figs, pomegranates. She lets you taste one, you do. You have never tasted so sweet a fruit with such depth of flavor. "Because I let them ripen all the way as God really wanted. The farmer who grows commercial fruit can't do that because he couldn’t get them to market quick enough. Never buy fruit from a man,” she winks, smiling as she offers to sell you the entire bunch and the basket they came in for an outrageous price. “Cheap at the price she says, It’s worth twice that amount!” You find yourself buying it and running home to share them with friends who want to return with you to get some more. And when you go, oh those fruits? They’re out of season now. But jam, yes.And again, an outrageous price.

 

She invites you to share her table for a meal. Her breads are amazing, dark, soft, fragrant. A slice of this bread can stand up on its own, on its edge on the plate and not fall yet it is crumbly and soft as cake. The butter is sweet, fresh churned, the jams that she makes are amazing tasting of no fruit you recognize. Her prices are way way over what they charge in the city but for such mesmerizing jams, with a melange of fruits selected -- some for sweetness, others for color, but always with the tang of lemon juice and orange peel for aromatics and tang... “Worth twice the price” she says and you pay it happily. 

 

You stare at the interior of her woodsy cottage fascinated by the artifacts, the paintings, the horoscopes, the palm prints of other visitors, framed. You read the name, a famous merchant, a famous beauty. And then you notice the cats. Queens lay nursing kittens who scoot around playing, leaping, their good humor filling the room with joy.

 

“How can you take in so many animals?” 

 

“Didn’t. Took in one little girl kitten. These are her descendants, thirty years later. The house brand.” She winks.

 

You stammer shyly, not knowing how to say this. “Doesn't it get filthy? The fleas and all?”

 

"Sure could. You have to start fine-combing their coats in April,  empty their litter boxes daily, give them outside garden time after meals and when it’s fine..You have to wash every itchy kitten once a week and daily  put on your specs and take off every flea. I use the kittens to vacuum the floors of fleas, then I have to get them up to their chin in water, pick the bugs off into the water. The kitties are cleaning my house for me. Fleas love the blood of babies. Good thing, I couldn’t wash the QUEENS, they’d take your face off. I clean the babies, in heat every day. Smell this one. “ Pansy Marguerite, come here.” The scent of the girl kitten was sweet bar soap. As sweet as a pansy.

 

How do you feed so many animals. I count over a dozen”. 

 

Well, dear I’m glad you brought that up. I sell fruit, jam, bread, cookies, books, herbs. Cheap at the price. Worth twice what I charge. I read astrology charts, palms, tarot, astrodice, I give life readings by email. You write me an email about your life, your talents, romantic situation, quandries, your hopes, desires, yearnings frustrations”. She leaned in. “You have to reveal your secret heart.Send yourself a copy for your scrapbook, BCC it. Then, You give me your date, hour and place of birth and I give you the ANSWER, by return email. YOUR own akashic destiny page. You as a GOD. Yes, you’re a GOD. Heading that way. Well I describe your destination. It’s unique for everyone you know.

 

Akashic records. They can only be seen by angels and Gods, not human women, certainly not an old woman like you!



A lot you know. I have been maid and mother. You only think I’m a crone. Look into my face. I am all three faces of woman. I am the eternal Deity in its female aspect. I will see things that no earth psychiatrist in the big city can, you know, those men who see eight people a day for 200$ each? I see one person a month if I’m lucky. And I only charge a few pennies but it’s worth it at twice the price because there aren't many female deities around, not a lot of crones left anymore. Being a crone is serious work. It takes a history, memory then isolation, a vantage point. One must leave the city go to the valley. Then one must leave the valley. One must be on the mountain top, listening only to falling water and rushing rivers. Only then does the crone brain kick in. True, when you give me a little money, I really pay attention. Think of it this way. You'll feed a lot of those cute little kitty cats whose bellies are always rumbling. I have twenty of the God forsaken creatures. I make the parasite medicines myself of green walnut, tea tree, garlic, wormwood, artemesia, all of which I grow. Not just for cats, you know? You city people with your sushi and raw milk had better take a dose of it too. I’ll put a bottle in your basket. Take it in the morning with a little juice. And oh, if you just want the jar of jam? 5$. Seems costly, but as it’s so unique, the ripeness, the sour lemon peel, it’s really worth twice the price. Or the crocosimia bulbs, l0$ as they're heavy and have to go thru the Post but why not a little extra for the gardener who spent years carrying water to get those big, juicy bulbs there, planting, feeding, then digging them out with a shovel and drying them in the sun.” She leans in and you smell the Columbian coffee on her breath, see the coffee stained teeth. “ My Crocosimia plants came originally come from the Garden of Eden over in Cape Town Africa. You’re getting the prettiest flower God ever made. Stunning. Ten dollars for a big bag of bulbs. The Dutch used to charge two thousand guilders for a single tulip bulb and those are only Turkish! These are from EDEN, itself!”

 

She winks and looks into your eyes. “You’re thinking of coffee. Me too. Do all the time. Stuff is damn costly. They ask 8$ a bag of coffee beans now. You have to pay it.” She sighs. “Want a cup of the best Columbian fresh ground, fresh brewed? Buy the box of bulbs. Only 10$. Coffee eight. Inflation. Guess Jose the Columbiano has to eat since the USA DEA took away their coca growing. I know I do --and the cats do. Post office charges 5$ so I can mail you a box of bulbs!  Do you want to talk about the cause of inflation, let’s talk government. Five billion a day to run that Arab war. How dare they? They should just give every Iraqui a few thousand dollars to start his own cottage industry and be a good boy. And she lapses into a tirade against the rulers and how they’re sending poor boys to die and getting uranium waste all over the villages so babies are born freaks not only there, but to the soldiers with interrupted DNA s when they get home. And then they’re shedding radium on friends and their friends’ friends and children all to only scatter a little on their enemies. 

 

“What we need is another post office – one that doesn’t’ enrich that sonovabitch government she mutters. Because this government only sees to the interest of the war toy manufacturers. Money should be for public welfare, not private wealth. But we don’t need the post office, do we? You’re right here. “ Her talons pat my knee. “I don’t have to mail them. You can take the bulbs with you. Only have them out of the ground in August and September, can’t leave them out longer. Or perhaps you will buy some seeds from my garden. Been collecting them whole last year, picking thru them, bagging them up.” She points to the jars and baskets on the shelf. 

 

“I’ll tell my friends.” I say.

 

“Have them send me lots of those cunning little postage stamps with pretty pictures on them I need stamps to write my young ones. I’ll mail you huge envelopes of seed packets so you can have the things you see growing around here. The six foot hollyhocks from China, shocking pink or burgundy. The fragrant summer stock. The rust colored sunflowers. The ultramarine blue morning glory vine. Aint that a beaut! The purple passion fruit, rains on your heads from the vines in my trees. She goes from poetry to vernacular, from rage to cackle like a true crone.

 

Finally, I’ve had my fill of Columbian coffee and bread that knows how to stand up on end. The crone fills my basket with what I’ve purchased and I count out the coins. As I walk home, I ponder this. Mythology does not tell us what crones do all day. We know what they know all night, they fly around on broomsticks, stir cauldrons of brews to sell medicine to her visitors. But I think I know now. The answer is this. She waters her plants, she boils up the fruit into jam, she watches kitten gambol. She wraps seeds in packets and during the day she is online, waiting to hear from you. She gives wisdom to women, provokes thoughts, lets you play handball off a more experienced brain. She gives you the distaff view to your own, usual thinking. She arms you for a surprise attack on your petty tyrants, those who are suppressive in your own universe. She can identify them and warn you. Call her Devil’s advocate, that’s what your language does with that CRONE position but she feels that she is the Angel’s Advocate. She speaks for heaven. She is anarchistic, actively in a dialectic with the Male Deity, confronting, demanding more, citing records, snarling, picketing, demanding, insulting, scaring the ‘other side’ but her considerations of your life will develop in you a powerful granite center, a life philosophy and world view that becomes like a huge wooden ship, keeping you afloat. Inpenetrable so you are safe. With huge sales that catch winds so you are carried to your goals on distant shores. She acts not only as a stimulus to your imagination but at times, as a critic to your lack of it.

 

GET A LIFE /Future/ DESTINY READING for 30$ the hour FROM A  GENUINE CRONE  15$ an half hour. 818-774-1939


ANITA SANDS
HERNANDEZ, maybe the only crone you know.

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