The Wise Woman, The Witch, and the Crone.

What face comes to mind when you picture the crone?

Maybe she’s your great-grandmother, your teacher, and your nurse. She’s the crazy old lady at the end of your street with too many garden gnomes. She’s the Vietnamese woman at the bakery who always gives you an extra pastry. She’s the bartender at your neighborhood dive bar. She’s the evil stepmother with a poison apple. She’s the figure lurking in the woods, luring children in to gobble up.

Who is this wrinkly, mysterious, figure? She’s feminine. There’s no doubt about it. But it’s a different femininity than the maiden or the mother. The crone has hardened over the years, yet can have a tenderness unmatched by youth. A grounded, knowing love that can only come from experiencing the world in all its hardships and humanity. From mistakes made and wounds licked.

Some wounds maybe stitched closed but still wet. And old wounds that fester begin to poison the well. The shadow side of the crone comes only from pain, time and time again. The hardened, withered exterior is abrasive and unforgiving. The shadow of the crone has been beaten by the elements with no protection or shelter. She has learned to fend for herself, often banished from sight, because those around her can’t look time in the face.

Maybe all of these women, in their one way. they are one in the same, but you only view them through specific windows, seeing the side of them that fits the scenery. Maybe under a different light, you’ll see the figure change.