I am remembering all the times I expected my body to stay the same.
Ever the maiden. Always in bloom.
The times waves of shock rippled through me as I observed my appearance and saw something unlike I had seen in years past. The changes so completely surprising and unwelcome.
I am an old witch in a fairy tale gazing in her mirror each day in hopes that the reflection will be a stroke of magic; an image of smooth skin and small waist.
Things do not remain the same. This is understand in a cerebral way but yet so many rage against the march of time and the effects that being alive has on us. Over and over, we expect the same image, the same functionality, and vitality despite the passing of years, the heartbreaks and sorrow and the trauma we endure.
How much does that old witch trope drive this resistance , I wonder? The images of the Disney movies of my youth feel ingrained within me like grooves carved in sandstone. Palpable is the image of papered, pale skin, a wart on a hooked nose, a cackle burst forth from abundant flesh.
All equivalent to the evil, the ugly and the useless.
Why is there not a jaw dropping awe at the depth and enormity of the witch’s magic? A reverence for her knowledge and her ability to embody Hera and Artemis, Demeter and Athena all at once. Her ability to see the future, heal the sick and guide the tides of the universe, deployed only in the name of re-capturing the looks of her youth.
I notice even now that I expect my body to stay the same.
The day soon dawns on my forties and the changes seem faster and more furious than ever. There is less mobility, less productive energy and more grey hair. My relationship with nourishment and with movement is finally beautiful, balanced and healthy and my body shape-shifts. Larger in the middle, fuller in the breast, looser in the arms. There are creases on my face and there is pain in my joints.
I am becoming the witch and despite my growing cauldron of embodiment, I continue to look in the mirror and feel disappointment at not seeing a maiden’s image reflected back at me.
Though without change, without growth and the human experience that is alchemized throughout life, we are just robots, are we not? AI. Florida teens on an endless Spring Break. There is no magic to behold there. No true wisdom. Yet the grooves are deep. The expectations remain.
Once again, our broken cultural matrices seem to reside at the heart.
The witch is evil. Patriarchy makes it so.
Youth is the altar. Ageism makes it so.
Thinness is goodness. Racism makes it so.
Fitness is health. Ablesim makes it so.
Bodies must be preserved, Capitalism tells us.
The crone energy in all it’s glory is powerful. And dangerous. Mother nature is a crone and we now only begin to understand her wrath.
Perhaps we begin also to appreciate her wisdom and divinity? Undoubtedly we are being moved in that direction and I wonder how much we will continue to resist.
I wonder how much I will continue to resist.