Jann Arden - If I Knew Then: Finding wisdom in failure and power in aging

THE MEANING OF the word crone varies depending on the person using it. Wikipedia says she is almost always a character in folklore and fairy tales. She is usually very disagreeable, somewhat sinister and malicious, with a sprinkling of magical or supernatural powers. That all sounds completely delicious to me. She sounds like somebody Id like to invite over for a few pots of Earl Grey tea and a platter of carbohydrates.

I didnt know who I was going to become in my forties or my fifties, I really didnt. My twenty-year-old self just threw her head back and laughed at the thought of being that old. But Im starting to get a clear picture of who I am going to be as I march into my sixties and seventies, Goddess willing!

Although the word itself is often associated with being aged and ugly and mean-spirited, to me a Crone is a kick-ass, take-no-prisoners, damn-the-torpedoes, own-your-own-crap, great kind of person to be. Entering into the time of the Crone, for me and thousands of other women (and perhaps a few fortunate men), has been nothing short of extraordinary.

The Crone is remarkably wise and unapologetic. She is fierce and forward-thinkingsomeone who is at the pinnacle of her own belonging. Okay, Im not entering the time of the Crone, I am a Crone. I am at the beginning of a new chapter in my lifea whole new book, really. And its one thats going to read and unfold exactly the way I want it to.

The first Crones I ever met were my grandmothers. As I was growing up, I watched both of them evolve into such fierce women, reaching for their Crone-ness in their own unique ways. I was both enamoured of them and a tiny bit afraid at the same time. I didnt know it then, but Crones dont take crap from anyone, even their own grandchildren.

My great-aunts were Crones too. My great-aunt Earn, who was her mothers namesake, was a force to be reckoned with. She was a journalist before women were even trying to be journalists. She drove around in a little sports car like she was in the Indy 500, and Im pretty sure she didnt even have a drivers licence, nor did she care. She smoked roll-your-own cigarettes, drank whiskey and swore with a great deal of purpose. She was one of the most unforgettable women I have ever met. She married, but very much on her own terms, and she never stopped working. When she got cancer in her early eighties, she remained unflinchingly calm, cool and collected. She wore a wig when her hair fell out after what was the first and last round of cancer treatment (sadly, it did not work), and I watched her chuck it into a roaring fire at a family reunion as she exclaimed, Im ready to die, but it sure as hell isnt an easy thing to do!

I recall it bursting into a ball of colourful flames and making a searing noise, and everybody laughing and slapping their knees. It was a good day for all of us, but not so good for the wig.

I remember listening to my moms mom and her sisters telling stories about their lives when they all got together. Rings of smoke circled their heads and stubby beer bottles were plunked on the table between decks of cards and tins of tobacco. Those old stories seemed to fill them with power and confidence. I miss all of them more than you could ever know. I miss their cackles and their beautiful wrinkled faces and their gnarled hands waving in the air as they laughed and laughed and laughed.

How I looked forward to having stories of my own to tell!

My maternal grandmother, Clara, talked about time a lot, how time made sense of things and how time handed out wisdom. She told me I would have to wait to be wise, that nothing made you wise but time. I understand that now.

In my eight-year-old brain, I did sometimes wonder if they had ever been young. It felt to me as if they had always been these aged marvelssmart and sure and steadyand old. I realize now that they were probably much like me when they were youngunsure, tentative, hesitant. It takes a long time to become a person. I wish they were here right now to inform me and help me and guide meBut Im pretty sure they are, right here in my head and heart, doing just that. I have to stop and be still long enough to hear them.

Lots of us dont know quite what to expect as we grow older. Its shrouded in our fear and worry about what we see as the inevitable decline. When we do think about it, we imagine its all about closing up shop or slowing things down or wrapping up loose ends. We think about the wrinkles that slither onto our brows and hands and necks, and we want all that to stop. We want to have our necks back, and our firm, strong legs and arms, and we want to have endless energy, and we want all of our marbles to stay right where they are!

But honestly, I have found such kindness in my bones as I have aged, an acceptance of self that I didnt even know existed. Im simply not hard on myself anymore. I appreciate the fact that my body is carting my soul around and its doing a spectacular job of it. I see such strength and ability in myself, which I didnt even notice, let alone appreciate, when I was a young woman. I didnt know how.

What I think about now couldnt be further from brooding on time running out. Instead, Im focused on reimagining and reinvention, the act of becoming someone I always hoped I would be. I feel that I am a wise woman emerging through the trees with a renewed sense of the purpose of my own glorious life. Now that Im a Crone, I speak my mind and chase my passions relentlessly. I do not need to wait for permission from anyone to do as I please, and I throw my opinions around, not like confetti, but like lightning bolts. Opinions and thoughts and ideas that are bigger than the whole of the sunand why not?