Potions, lotions & aging gracefully
Now that we are actually going to have another "Practical Magic" movie coming out, and as we've just passed the Lughnasadh/Lammas turn of the wheel toward the mellowing of summer into the first hints of autumn light...here I am contemplating things through the lens of cronehood.
With the ((ahem)) not-so-modern science of herbal scrubs and tallow balms, the tech advances of red LED lights, and rose quartz Gua Sha stone tissue massages before breakfast, who needs a glamour spell? Midlife crisis has been pushed out to 50 or even 55 now. Heck with the speed of life today and the way we can alter our female hormones through medication or sheer stress, it can take longer to actually get to the shores of menopause and cronehood.
I was 53-1/2 years old when my biology finally caught on to the idea that motherhood was not anywhere on my bingo card. Hot sweats to be cooled by midnight margaritas.
That, and I didn't meet the man of my dreams until I was way past the usual sell-by date stamped invisibly on my forehead society. He's a gem that thinks my Venus is more Willendorf than DeMilo but loves me for every squishy bit of it.
And this late-in-life edition of my romantic story arc has also renewed my interest in how the Goddess energy within me has come back to me with a face of a much more femme fatale version of Aphrodite than a girlish giggle or batting of eyelashes. She's teaching me that seductive arts don't leave you, the energetic rush doesn't dissipate merely because you can no longer wear CFM pumps.
There is less attention paid to rising hemlines and more emphasis on worshipping your loving partner for their successful life experiences. The wisdom found in having become such a virtuoso kisser, how to treat ones partner with respect and yet still appreciate that he has learned the art of being both a gentleman and a savage in a way that a younger version couldn't master.
For me, I recognize that there really is beauty in each crinkle at the corner of my eye, carved there from a well-worn track of laughter and sometimes squinting incredulity at the idiocy of some of the shit the kids say today. Every curve, however ample some may now be, that I possess, I have earned. Some of it through learning to become a fabulous cook and some of it because I may well be a shapeshifting as lazy housecat on occasion.
For me, I recognize that there really is beauty in each crinkle at the corner of my eye, carved there from a well-worn track of laughter and sometimes squinting incredulity at the idiocy of some of the shit the kids say today. Every curve, however ample some may now be, that I possess, I have earned. Some of it through learning to become a fabulous cook and some of it because I may well be a shapeshifting as lazy housecat on occasion.
Getting older as a GenX witch and knowing the weird/wyrd road that brough modern paganism into this bizarre mutation of Tiktok and underground retro traditionalism forcefed by socio-political agendas and taffypulled media narratives, it is both exhausting and liberating to behold. I find myself laughing at the inside joke of "to be silent" is so much easier when you don't want to participate in the funhouse mirror of the bullshit that exists in paganism now. It is polarized and warped so much, I have a deeper appreciation for wanting to just be left the hell alone to live in a cottage in the forest and culling my own herb garden in peace.
Once upon a time I had thought to teach, to hold a coven again, to write a book. Now? Why bother. Bots and ChatGPT will just make it seem like it has all been said and done before. No seekers come forward to work through experiential training. No one gives a damn about lineage or consistency of practice alongside generational teachers. And frankly, I don't think I want to expend the energy on the short attention spans I see around me.
It is ironic that the window of things being something joyfully passed down skipped out of town just when I was eligible to be one ready to pass it, like getting stuck with the pentacled hot potato. Now it is passe.
It is ironic that the window of things being something joyfully passed down skipped out of town just when I was eligible to be one ready to pass it, like getting stuck with the pentacled hot potato. Now it is passe.
Kind of reminds me of the way I feel about thrifting and antiquing. There are so many glorious treasures that have been discarded in all their gently patinaed, wabi-sabi goodness, and most of the world doesn't even seem to notice their value.
Like me. I find I feel like that from time to time too, that because I've reached "a certain age" myself, I'm now sprinkled with the invisible dust and relegated to the knicknackery on hidden on the back shelf.
But jokes on you. I may well be happier here, among the dusty things. The solid things that were hand made by artisans and not meant to be disposable and easily replaced or trendy. The things that get more beautiful as they change and age and get more mellow with time and softness.
My witchery has grown like that too. Like a garden that has matured and has gnarled, curled branches...roses blown wide apart with trembling petals and wavy edges....moss and mushrooms...soft pathways underfoot from being trod over decades. It is less about discoveries and new exploration than it is about books as old friends and teas/tisanes that taste like honeyed brandy. Familiar and dark and deep and cozy.
I've become the Aunts, not Sally or Jilly. And I'm fine with that.
