$issue = 'Wisdom and Knowing Issue, December 2006 — March 2007'; $articlecss = 'css/main.css'; $keywords = 'moondance, columns, inspiring, exploration, literature, women, woman, exploration, diane e. dees, lucinda nelson dhavan, katie weekley, cynthia porter, valerie wilkinson, kay sexton'; $description = 'A collection of inspiring poetry, art and literature written for women. Moondance ezine has opinions, columns, fiction, writing, song and story, inspirational art and fine poetry.'; $title = 'Columns - December 2006 - March 2007'; include INCDIR.'/header_content.inc'; ?>
In what may have been a random blessing, my hair began graying when I was in my thirties. It started when the shock of hair that was blonde during my childhood summers turned, giving me an exotic, Susan Sontag look that I had never sought. Then all of it went silver, and rather than coloring it, I decided to enjoy it. Then one or two sun spots appeared on my skin.
When you get to a state where you appreciate that a good leg rub might feel better than sex, it’s like a race horse throwing off saddle and harness and just running for the fun of it. Being older and wiser, quite simply, rocks.
I decided to start my quest where all wise researchers go—the Internet. What would reinventing myself entail? Were new jeans and a haircut all it took? How would I know when I'd made it? More importantly, if I succeeded, would some part of me be lost? I typed "reinvention" into the Google search engine and waited.
I celebrate the "older" women in my life, not for what they taught me, but for reassuring me that I too could learn to cope with whatever life threw at me even when my neighbors expected me to be able to dance, sing, play cards, tell stories, mind their children, butcher half a lamb, harvest mushrooms, nuts, and fruit and pickle, preserve, and salt them, mend boots, plant a vegetable garden, and–if necessary–help a dog give birth.
Reclaiming Cronehood - Celebrating getting there, looking to the women of years who have so much to share, cherishing our mothers and grandmothers.
Pausing only briefly before deciding to educate the young lad that older women hold exotic and enticing secrets, I pulled out the fake purple wedding bird, and set it on the table like it was the most commonplace purse item around.
How could she even think that Gram was hers? Gram lived with me. She dressed me and read to me. We stayed up together, eating peanut butter and pickle sandwiches and watching Johnny Carson. She even slept with me. There was no doubt about it. She was my grandmother.