Make Me A Grandmother

Most days I am just waiting to become a grandmother so I can teach the children the ways of the stars and they will listen with their open hearts because they have not yet been molded by the hands of fear.
…I think thats why I often find myself accidentally rushing through life…
Rushing to jump generations ahead to guide the new from a place of steadiness and grace.
Rushing to get to an age where the path has already been paved for my descendants.
Rushing to legacy build for the ones to come.
I also wait to become grandmother so the cynical might see my silver hair and recognize the wisdom that created them, my silvery glow reflecting the wisdom that is within them, too.
There is something about silver that rings true and demands respect. Like our wise sister the moon who rules our waters and ultimately all of life as it pulses and sloshes through us. When a sister of mine first saw my grey hair peaking from my roots she replied, “your wisdom is coming in.” and I felt an unexpected sense of relief and pride.
I wait to become a grandmother to fully embody the ancientness I feel, to bypass the feeling of not fitting in with the people of my time.
I wait to become a grandmother because maybe then the world’s people will be evolved enough to hold more love instead of fear.
I wait for the white hair and tissue skin and wisdom spots because there is a part of me that feels more belonging in that body than this mother form with her curves and soft flesh and youthful cheeks.
I once visited my soul’s true form in a otherworldly journey and she was so old her skin was see through and iridescent, her hair shimmered lavender down by her feet, and she was so frail all she could do was lay upon the grass in a dream. She was tired from so much living and growing seeds, nearing her last breath, but she wasn’t quite done yet. She just needed to rest and dream a little more, not quite as youthful and jubilant of a woman of 1000 years ago.
My whole life rather than longing to be better, smarter, prettier, thinner, or wealthier like most woman, I have just wanted to be older. So that my outer expression can more closely resemble my inner expression. The ancientness I am.
Since I was a child in this life I struggled with all things youthful and playful and modern and found comfort in the olden ways. I was the 6-year old divining with cards and stones in my grandmother’s den, studying 3000-paged art history books, and pondering the patterns of life.
Inside im the old witch writing by candlelight and casting spells in languages from the stars and riddles from the nature spirits. I am watching the youth live their experience of life in the weirdest ways, not completely understanding why they are choosing what they are instead of who they really are, but I wait for the right opportunity to teach them.
Maybe its not the grandmother’s form I long to wear but simply the ancientness of my soul. If I could wear her like a cloak with magical glasses that helped others to see what I see. To see how I see all souls as quite ancient, some more than others, but truly all elders just wearing skin that will expire soon. But the soul will continue to age for eternity or more.
I would wear her proudly with grace and acceptance for all her dangling flesh and shrinking form.
I remember once my grandmother told me when she was in her mid 50s that she never wanted to be old (she exited this realm 11 days before she was 60). The curse of the youth casted by the patriarchy had gotten her. I sat there confused already envious of her delicately aging form. I loved the off centered lines in between her brows that now show up for me when I am deep in thought. I loved her hands that felt so ancient, that matched the shape of mine almost identically. I loved her maturity and wisdom and steadiness. Was this old to her? Why didn’t she see herself the way that I did? At the time she was barely older than most of my friend’s parents. If she only knew how old I longed to be and how I felt more of a kinship with more her form and soul than anyone else I knew.
That’s when I began to witness our cultures war against the aging and changing woman early in this life. How could we deny and suppress the nature of life as we embody it? Is this life not about being nature and creating change so our souls can grow? Is a woman not nature’s cycles in body form? It is an art form just as your cherished 700 year old museum paintings, your ancient texts you built worlds upon, and your classical songs that heal. But only more sacred because to age like nature is to honor the impermanence of all life. This is what our souls choose by arriving here in this life with all its 3D time limitations.
And so I wonder, will I ever fit in with my beauty and youth obsessed culture? I watch those in younger generations already manipulating their sacred form, injecting their face with fillers and chemicals to be loved in this world that forgets and silences the aging and values the young because in their minds the young can be easily manipulated, where the wise grandmothers know all your schemes and see through your manipulations. If only they all knew the song of the soul was what they were really seeking. If only our culture creating these narrow standards recognized the wisdom and power and value they really seek lives in their ancientness. In their infinite nature. In their wrinkles and life experience and soul memory. If only they knew….that the grandmothers are the key. If only they knew, If we listened to them, we would all be free.

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