Thank you and welcome...

to my first TWENTY followers!  Thank you so much for joining me here on my journey.  I hope you will continue to share parts of yours.  If there's an aspect you'd like to discuss... please suggest it. 

Of Matriarchs and Mothers

The main activity at my stepdad's 75th surprise party was the taking of a family picture that included all my siblings, grandchildren, in-laws and significant others.  We gathered on my brother's backyard slope, under the searing afternoon sun.  Chairs were suggested for my mother and stepdad.  As we clustered around them, a motley crew if ever there was one, I was reminded of Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip sitting side by side in William and Kate's bridal picture. 

There were a lot of us.  Besides my parents and my three sibs, there are five significant others, eight grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.  It took a lot of shuffling and shifting to get it right.  My mother sat and chuckled while the rest of us scurried back and forth at the photographer's bidding.

As in the wedding pictures of the royal couple, there won't be any doubt who's in charge. 

I come from a long line of strong women.

The first woman of my lineage I can name is my great-great-grandmother, Angelina.  She was born exactly a hundred years before I was, in 1859, in a little village on an island hugging the shores of Naples, and she died before my mother was even born, on an island that hugs the South Jersey coast.   When she came through Ellis Island, she had her daughter, Benedetta, for whom I am named, with her.  When my mother finally went back to see the little island within sight of Mt Vesuvius from which my mother's family comes, she was amazed to see so many of the same last names she had known as a child in Ocean City.  "It's like a member or two of every family just picked up and moved to another island...one six thousand miles away."  My great-grandfather's family was from the same village; he didn't have to go a quarter way around the world to find her.   And it certainly explains my itch to move to the Big Island - an island six thousand miles from the one on which I was born. 

But what it would have been like, to get on a ship and know you would never see your home again?  In this day when my youngest can text and instant message and Facebook me any hour of the day or night, she has no sense even of what it was like for me when I went to England as a 17 year old exchange student.  No cellphones, no computers - only pay phones and letters that still took at least five days to cross the ocean.  I thought that required a lot of backbone then... I can't imagine what it would've been like to get on a ship with children in tow, and know that not only would you never see anywhere or anyone you ever knew or loved again, you might not even make it to your destination alive. 

My grandmother evidenced the steel to make those kinds of decisions:  she was a strong, but rigid woman, who didn't know how to let go or give in.   I know she loved me; the trouble was that her kind of love was as sweet as vinegar.   A few years ago, I happened to catch a documentary about Neapolitan "godmothers" - female leaders of the Italian Mafia capable of running their family businesses every bit as cold-bloodedly as their male counterparts.  I watched it, fascinated, feeling both a chill, and a familiarity.

But it's my mother who embodies the concept of matriarch.  No monarch of any empire past or future will ever occupy a position as secure in the hearts and minds of her subjects.   Our feelings may waver between love and terror, fondness and frustration in the same way, I imagine, a sailor experiences the sea.  I've never met another woman who can match her.  I haven't always liked my mother.  But there's something about my mother I've always respected and mostly admired.

I didn't really understand what it was until one day my husband observed that he found my mother awe-inspiring.  "Your mother is a woman who made a man give up God."  The admiration in my husband's voice was palpable.

Men love my mother, I answered, somewhat dismissively.  Even her friends notice it, wherever she goes, men just love my mother.

"No, no," my husband said.  "This is more than that.  Of course, men love your mother... I love your mother...but I also know men.  I know a lot of ministers and rabbis and priests.  You don't just leave God for anyone.  Your mother is... is like  a force of nature."

That was when I began to understand the real gift that my mother had given to me.  By breaking with every tradition available to a small town Italian-Catholic wife and mother, she set me free from every traditon that might've bound me.  She opened my mind to the realization that human will trumps just about every force in the known universe; that all so-called "sacred" scripture isn't necessarily sacred and that Authority isn't just to be questioned; it's to be challenged, and when appropriate, fought and overcome. 

As a mother, she showed how to raise my own children both in what she did and didn't do.  As a writer and a story-teller, her choices are an immeasurable gift to my imagination and my intellect.  And as a woman, there is simply no one like her.  If I am facing my old age bravely, I know it's mostly because of her.  My mother, goddess bless her, makes 76 seem young. 

Which brings me back to what I thought yesterday as the photograph from across my brother's street so kindly snapped away at us in the sultry heat:  Long live the Queen.     

Gray hair part two

I just read an article on the Huffington Post about whether or not gray hair disadvantages a woman in the workforce.  I've had gray and graying hair 75% of my life.  My mother found my first white hair when iI was 13 and I'm 52 now.  

I started coloring my hair when I turned 30.   Photographs of me holding my third baby, born when I was 28, show me with hair the color of steel.  I needed steel, then, to endure the life I was enduring, but I was so focused on survival, I didn't see it.  When a hairdresser told me my hair wasn't very attractive, it occured to me she had a vested interest in making me believe my hair wasn't flattering.   But I was young and vulnerable, and so I started to color. 

By the time I was forty, I hated it.  My hair was so white, by that point, and so fine and straight, that a white line appeared down the center of my head a mere ten days to two weeks after I colored it.  I didn't like the texture - it was fine and straight where it grew in, but the closer to the ends you go, the drier and coarser it became. 

Curling it permanently was out because the double processing was so hard on it.  And the color wasn't right.  When I was a child, my hair was such a dark brown, it looked black until you saw it in the light.  But no manufactured process can replicate that color.  And no other color I tried - and I tried them all - quite fit. 

So on my fortieth birthday, I took the plunge and stopped coloring my hair.  To my surprise, and everyone else's, my hair grew out to a soft shimmery platinum white.  People stop me to ask who does my color or how I get it so white.  In the same way nothing could reproduce the color of my hair in my childhood, nothing can produce the color of my hair as it naturally is. 

So what would induce me to change it?    

So I can fit into some corporate groupthink approved mindset of what is appealing and attractive in a woman?  Not this woman, thank you.  There wasn't a cubicle made that could hold me.... I drove three companies into serious financial trouble in the very short time I worked for them all.  My hair in some perfectly apt way, is the perfect color for someone who identifies with and is comfortable with the energies of Trickster and Fool.  

For those wondering if gray hair inevitably makes one unattractive, I've never lacked for male attention and I sincerely doubt I ever will as long as I'm interested in men. 

The kinds of jobs I had in the corporate world I didn't think really worth doing, not in comparison to what I see as my "real" Work: mothering and writing, and certainly not worth giving up my identity for.  I remember one boss who told me, "I think you come here just to make the rest of your life work."  I said, "Why else would I be here?"  (Yes, that's a risky answer, but that's the truth.  And until each and every one of us can be who we really are and be frank and honest about our priorities, we're all in serious trouble.) 

So to all those women who are considering whether or not to make your hair one of the same 39 shades Miss Clairoll can make, consider that the Goddess who made YOU  made your hair.  Maybe there's something about the color of your hair that is as uniquely YOU as the rest of you is.  And maybe... just maybe... you want to think twice about whether or not you wish to be a wage-slave to a culture that would have you deny a most essential part of you.   In other words, its not just your hair color you're sacrificing. 

I think there's a real message for women in this act of culturally-mandated coloring of one's hair.  It's one thing to color one's hair because the natural color is displeasing to one's self, I think.  It's one thing to color one's hair as reflection of some personal choice one has decided to make.  But to color your hair to make others believe you are something you are not is an act not only of deception but of self-deception. 

And why do it?  The Founding Fathers who are so much with us lately wore white wigs.  There's a certain kind of power in claiming who you really are on very basic levels, and hair color is just one way of many.  As the hippies sang, and Samson and indigenous practitioners of magic everywhere know, there's power in Hair. 

Lessons in Letting Go

I can feel fall coming.  It's in the taste of suddenly delicious apples, in the loamy scent of the leaves brought down by Hurricane Irene.  I can see it in the shifting light, hear it in the geese screaming overhead.  The air when I walk the puppies nips slightly at my sun-spoiled blood.  I need shoes...and a shirt with long sleeves.  

Tonight my Pagan Study Group discusses letting go. 

My first lesson in letting go came when I decided to file for divorce from my abusive ex-husband.  He had begun to threaten me with getting a divorce.  Three times over the course of six weeks, I heard him say it.  I was a stay-at-home mother at that point, with four very young children who ranged in age from 14 to 14 months.  By the time he said it the fourth time, I was able to say, "You'll hear from mine first."

The next one came when I was laid off the first of what turned out to be three times in five years.  As my lawyer ex waged legal warfare, I was just staggering onto my feet when my fledgling corporate career was knocked off its track.  By the time I was laid off the third time, I decided that Someone was trying to tell me something (every company I worked for lost successively greater amounts of money) and retired from the for-profit world.  Needless to say, I don't miss my days in the cubicle (and frankly can't imagine how anyone could).

The third one came as I looked back at my parents and my grandmother and how they had all chosen to live their lives, and how those choices affected and impacted me.  My mother left my father and made another man give up God.  My father went to California and invented an industry.  My grandmother held on to her bitterness, to her anger and her jealousy until it ate her up and brought her house to the brink of shambles. 

The fourth came one morning when my oldest daughter, Katie, who was then 13, came to me in tears.  "I had a really bad dream, Mom," she confessed.  "It was terrible... I dreamt you died.  You were in a coffin and we were at church, and it was terrible."  And as I rocked my baby, I wondered to say. 

And then, somehow, I knew.  Katie had just started her periods a month or so before.  "Well," I said carefully, as I held her in my arms.  It was amazing how much of her still fit.  "In a way, I have died to you.  You don't need the same kind of mommy any more, as you used to.  So that mommy, that old mommy, is dying - she's dead.  The dream is showing you that that mommy is dead.  But that doesn't mean that your real mommy is dead... I'm obviously still here.  But I'm going to be a new kind of mommy now.  Because that's the kind of mommy you need.  And if I stayed the old kind of mommy - the mommy who was there for teething and toilet training and that kind of thing, that wouldn't be very helpful, would it?" 

"Hm," she said, and I could see I had her attention, which was rapidly becoming a rare and wonderful thing.  She raised her head and pinned me with that piercing stare that hadn't wavered from the day she opened her eyes on my belly.  "That means you have to change, too."

"Yes," I said, as my eyes filled with tears.  "Yes, my baby, it does."  And then we both cried, for the mommy and the baby we used to be. 

Empty Nest

Little Libby's off to college.  We took her there on Friday.  The move went like clockwork - it helps that Libby's three older sibs all attended the same school.  Both my oldest daughter and my son knew exactly where we were going and the lay of the land when we got there.  We met her roommate and her family, who seemed like nice people with an older son already esconced in an off-campus apartment.  

At 3:45, as we were mostly finished unpacking, a Resident Advisor came to the door.  She reminded the girls they had a meeting on the quad at 4:15.  Then she looked at us.  "Parents should probably start walking over to the Convocation if you're staying for it.  It's quite a long way.  You can meet up with your student at the barbecue after.  If you're staying for it."

Libby wanted me to stay.   I told her I was willing but that I really didn't think she needed me to stay.  It was time for her to look forward, not back.  Then her roommate's family said they were leaving.  If we left, Libby and her roommate would start off on the very same footing. 

Libby looked at me.  "I think this is a good chance for you and your roommate to get to know each other," I said. 

She looked at her big sister.  "I have to get home to Jake and Grace," said Katie. 

She looked at her big brother.  "Lib," said Jamie.  "It's Friday night." 

Thirty one years of motherhood has taught me a lot of things...like when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em, and when to walk away.  "It's a real good chance, honey," I whispered as I hugged her goodbye.  "You'll do just fine." 

The car felt emptier than it's felt in a long long time as I drove off.   And I felt free...in a way I haven't in thirty-one years.   

Today's the Day...

...as in Move Libby Into College Day.  Two of Libby' siblings- her biggest sister Kate and her big brother Jamie, who fortunately has remained a big brother at least in relation to Libby - are coming to help.   The fact that a hurricane named Irene is bearing down on the state adds an extra soupcon of I'm not quite sure what. 

Students at colleges closer to the shore line are being told to evacuate once they've moved their stuff in, but Storrs, CT, just happens to be one of the most geographically safe places in the northern hemisphere.  And we already had an earthquake last week. 

But today...whatever the weekend and Irene brings...is beautiful.  The sun's rising in long golden spears of light, the mist is rising off the ponds.  The birds are calling, the roses are blooming, the world is lush and ripe and beckoning.  I'm feeling rested and strong - all that good eating and those other healthy practices are paying off in terms of energy and awareness.

And I am about to get my life back in a way I haven't had it in more than three decades.  No wonder a hurricane is roaring up the East Coast in a way one hasn't in over fifty years. 

...And Mind Malfunctions

I distinguish a senior moment from a mind-malfunction.  They're what I call when I pound up or down the steps or stride into a room with great purpose, only to realize once I arrive at my destination I have no idea what I'm there for.  Although feeling like I've fallen into a black hole in my head is annoying, it doesn't bother me to the extent the senior moment I described yesterday. 

Mind malfunctions happen when I'm trying to think of more than one thing at once.  As one reader has already pointed out, this can happen to mothers a lot.  The antidote seems to be to slow down and stop trying to multitask.  There's nothing wrong with not zipping around like Speedy Gonzales (if that doesn't date me, I don't know what does) - its just antithetical to the way our culture spurs us to live our lives.  There's nothing wrong with rejecting the multi-tasking path; it's just not encouraged. 

What I was talking about yesterday was something all together different.  When I walk into a room and can't remember why I'm there, I just retrace my steps back to the point where I was before I decided I needed or wanted whatever it is.  Forgetting who wrote Madame Bovary was an entirely different kind of experience.  There was no place to go back to.... it was simply something I knew I knew....and couldn't retrieve. 

It was, I would imagine, something like what an Alzheimer's patient might feel in the early stages.  You know you know what the object in front of you is and what you use it for.  You just can't remember what. 

So... you might wonder.  What have I done it since?  After my moment of panic subsided - because, after all, one senior moment does not an Alzheimer's patient of us make - I decided to take a long look at what the culture tells me to do about it, and what I was going to do about it - if anything.  

Senior Moments

I didn't understand what a "senior moment" was until I had one myself. 

It was terrifying, in a weird sort of way because I knew exactly what was going on and what I wanted to remember; I simply couldn't summon the information out of Data Central.  It happened one morning between feeding the dogs and emptying the dishwasher, when it suddenly occured to me I couldn't remember who wrote Madame Bovary. 

Oh, you may say, what's the big deal?  After all, most people probably forget who wrote Madame Bovary as soon as they toss the book into the used book pile for donation to the library sale.  But I know stuff like that.  I remember stuff like that. Flaubert was said to have spent afternoons pondering the placement of a comma, which always makes me feel better whenever I'm stuck in the upteenth revision of whatever it is I'm working on. 

And the worst part was... I couldn't jog it out of my memory, either.  The dogs finished their breakfast and looked up at me, ready to go out.  I put down my dish towel, and where my mind used to be was a big black blank.  I stared at the dogs, racking my mind.  I know this, I said to myself over and over.  I know it. 

I would swear to you I heard my dog Buddy say - in my mind's ear of course - It begins with an F - but if I told you that, you'd think I wasn't only forgetful, but crazy as well.  At any rate, painful letter by painful letter, I dragged the name F-L-A-U-B-E-R-T out of my muddy mind and have resolved never to miss a game of Jeopardy, if I can remember to watch it, of course, again. 

Jane Fonda takes testosterone... say it ain't so!

That was the headline screaming across my news banner this afternoon.  I remember when Jane Fonda was my leotard'd and leg-warm'd idol, back in the days when I was desperate to get my post-babies body back. 

So I clicked on the link and found that the 80's Queen of Lean n' Mean owed much of her sculpted form and physical appearance to an artificial hormone.  I'm so glad I stopped listening to Jane Fonda.  Imagine all the time and effort I might've wasted if I'd been trying to look like her - especially if I were in my 70's.  Imagine all the people who have.  It makes me wonder what she was really taking back in the days of her exercise videos.  It seems that if she's lying now, she quite possibly started lying then.   But it's not Ms. Fonda's use of hormones that really alarms me; its what she was taking them for. 

I don't understand this tie we assume that hormones have to interest in sex.  I discovered my equipment when I was still too young to know what it was, and too young to even understand the sensations involved were pleasure.  But everything worked swimmingly when I was three and four and five and there were no hormones to speak of in my body at that point.  I see no reason why everytinng shouldn't continue to work swimmingly... assuming of course, I don't stop using it.  

A Whiter Shade of Gray

When you start going gray in your teens, you realize almost immediately the color of one's hair must have absolutely no correlation with who someone really is. 

My mother found my first white hair when I was thirteen.  I remember the moment as if it were yesterday, so frozen in time is it.  Oh, my God, she said, in same tone she might've used if it were a louse, you have a white hair.  A perfectly white hair.  Just like Roey.   She plucked it out and held it up, between her thumb and forefinger, so that I might see it, glistening in the light. 

Just like Roey meant just like my mother's mother, who went prematurely gray in her 20's and with whom my mother waged what I fondly recall as The Great War of my Childhood.   To be seen by my mother in any way to be like my grandmother was a fate to be avoided at all costs.  But there it was... the damning evidence of my own genes, sparkling before my eyes.  The realizaton that there was nothing that I was ever going to be able to do about this and that year by year my own hair would betray me fell around me like an albatross.  

When white hair is weighted by a sense of parental rejection, getting upset about a few gray strands as a consequence of getting older seems almost laughable.  It's not I don't sympathize; it's simply that by the time I was 18, my hair was so noticeably gray in places, one friend's mother asked me where I had it frosted.  So if we were to talk about the "real color" of my hair, by my twenties, it was steel gray.  The original color - the one I was born with and which I struggled mightly to hang on to through my thirties - was a dark brown so dark it looked black until the light shone on it. 

I gave up when I turned forty.  My hair is simply too white.  Two weeks after a touchup, the white strip on either side of my part reminded me of a skunk.  I decided to take the plunge and let it go.  Maybe, I reasoned, my hair wasn't prematurely anything...maybe it had turned the color it was supposed to be right on schedule.  And I was the one who was getting in the way. 

So I quit.  The adventure of that is another story all together because I didn't want to do the sensible thing and just cut my hair.  (I've been avoiding doing sensible things all my life.. why would I start at 40?)  But I don't regret it.  Although my hair, like I myself bear some similarities to my grandmother, my hair is its own color, in the same way I'm who I am.  How do you get it so white, a friend asked me, a long time ago, when the real color had finally grown in. 

It's just the way it grows, I laughed. 

To Color or Not to Color: THAT is the question

What side of the line do you fall? 

Not By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chin or,

Tweezers are really a girl's best friend. 

I had to chuckle when one reader shared in a comment that the new row of hairs along her chin made her feel as woolly as a wombat. 

 I was prepared to go gray.  My mother found my first white hair when I was 13, and by the time I was 30, my hair was a steel gray that a hairdresser told me was most unbecoming.  By the time I decided to stop coloring my hair - the year I turned 40 - I was so gray (or white) that the line running down my head on either side of my scalp made me look like a skunk. 

But around the same time I noticed my eyebrows turning white, I noticed that among the peach fuzz growing on my chin were black hairs and a couple thick white ones that if I saw them on my husband's face, I'd call (gulp) whiskers.  

As a teen I'd tried hair remover creams and bleach...they were all smelly and stung.  My mother's injunction against shaving one's face prevents me from trying a razor.  Waxing is fine, but I don't want to spend all my time at the salon.  

Hence my new respect for tweezers.  They keep the stubble between waxes at bay and me feeling that my chin is still smoother than those of the three little pigs.  

How about you, readers? Do you have more hair....or less?

What Happened Next

It wasn't so much what happened next; it was really what had been happening for quite a while. 

I began to notice changes in my body's behavior starting around 45.   Some of these changes however, were related to behaviors I could control.  For example, although in my late 30's I had been an avid runner and gym rat - one might even say I was an exercise addict - by 2003 I'd quit exercising almost altogether.  

Why?  By 2003, the circumstances of my life which had given rise to the intensity of my physical activity, had more or less dissipated.  When I paused to take stock of what had both prompted the exercise and then what made it stop, I realized that running and weightlifting had been my way of coping with the extreme stress of my incredibly brutal divorce and the protracted struggles that followed it. 

In 1995, my now ex-husband reacted badly when I filed for divorce after nearly 15 years of physical and emotional abuse.  A lawyer, he was doing everything in his power to make life as difficult as he could for me and our children, legally and financially.   Running and weight-lifting made me physically strong, which helped me feel mentally and emotionally strong.  They also channeled my agression and my frustrations into something beneficial. 

But by 2003, the war he had launched was mostly mitigated when my children and I moved in with the man who is my husband now.  When the pressure ceased, so did my need to exercise. 

So I stopped. 

It took me awhile to fall apart, but by the time I was 45, I was definitely feeling the effects.

This was what I noticed:

1.  Weight gain

2.   Muscle loss (duh)

3.  Moodiness and hormone swings

4. Migraines

5. Loss of energy and focus

What did you notice, dear companions? 

Welcome and thank you...

....to my first ten followers :)!

What I Didn't Want: not-so-wise words from a not-so-wise woman

"You're going to feel like shit," she shrieked through the telephone.  "Unless you do something."  Do something as in take the bio-identical hormones Suzanne Somers swears by.  "She" was a fairly recent acquaintance, who didn't know me well enough to know how absolutely freakishly immobile I can become any time I'm told there's something I "must" do. 

My response is usually a silent "we'll see about that."  I had happened to share with this new friend that I blamed a recent spate of migraines on hormones and the weather.  But both would pass and I was confident I would feel fine in a few days.  That's when she began to extol the virtues of Bio-Identical hormones.  That's when I politely opined I preferred to be guided by my body.  That's when she - ordained minister, self-proclaimed theologian, international traveler, among other things - turned into a harpy. 

A few years ago, I had tried to add more soy to my diet, after reading and hearing about all the benefits to be reaped.  Soy left me with a mostly metallic taste in my mouth.  It didn't make me feel good.  At best it made me feel weirdly hollow. My body knew I was trying to trick it.  So when my new friend clued me in to her own fear of growing old - I could hear it in the timbre of her voice - I had to think about if Suzanne Somers was the person I wanted to pattern my behavior after. 

I have nothing against Ms. Somers.  As an actress, she entertained me.   But when I look at her now, and I mean no offense, she doesn't look like someone I want to look like.  And I don't believe that a woman's body needs to have things "replaced" or levels "maintained."  The way I looked at it, this is a change my body has adapted to go through.  All of the older women I knew - my grandmother and my aunts  and my mother - lived lives that seemed just fine without much artificial enhancement by today's standards at all.  Why would I want to hang on to something nature had designed me to stop?  

This was my attitude about childbirth, after all.   I've given birth to four children, all without so much as a bullet to bite on.  Admittedly, my labors were relatively fast - the longest was the first and that only lasted a textbook twelve hours.  But mostly what kept me grunting and groaning and huffing and humming was my sheer aversion to hospitals, needles and medical personnel in general unless I decide they're necessary. 

But as I said to my father, who was amazed by my ability in this regard, all I felt I had to do was get out of the way.  I reasoned then that a billion years or more of evolution had gone into the design of my body, that humans had been birthing humans since before we called ourselves "human."  I knew that if I could trust that my body somehow knew exactly what to do - in the same way a dog mother knows what to do - everything would go the way it was supposed to go.   

Well, said my father, it sure worked well for you. 

What I really heard in my friend's voice was fear.. and not so much fear of getting older...more like fear of losing youth.  And that's what I see on the frozen Barbie faces of the public figures who are clearly engaged in an all out war on Time.  

Maybe it's easier for me to contemplate giving up my youth because I did some really dumb things when I was younger. What youth has going for it is the fabulous body but no one appreciates it while it's at its meridian.  I see that in my own girls, but that's another post. 

But my body has served me well.  I've had a lot of fun with it.  It really hasn't ever let me down.  Sooner or later, no matter what I look like, I'm going to have to die.  Why would I want to torture myself into trying to look forever 35? 

So I decided that despite my friend's heart-felt warning, I would do what I do best ....which is nothing.  

And to wait  and see what happened next.  Blessed Be.   

Wise books for Wise Women

All my life I've lived in books. 

I realize now that from the time I was a child, the voices I heard in books were as authentic to me as the voices from the people around me.  It still feels that way.

Long before I embarked on this menopausal journey, I discovered a book called The Wise Wound.  If you have not encountered this book before, I urge you to track it down and read at least a chapter or two.  When I read it, in my twenties, it both affirmed things that I had always felt to be true deep within my body, and enabled me to understand the cycles of my body in a whole new way.  I hope its perspective enabled me to offer my daughters an even more reasonable understanding of their periods than my mother had offered me.  (And my mother, Goddess bless her, as a nurse, did a great job.)

So when I began to feel changes in the mostly regular tides of my body, I turned to books for wisdom.  These listed below are just a few of the ones I found to be the most helpful - I welcome suggestions from you for more:

Susun Weed, The New Menopausal Years

Paula M. Reeves, Phd, Women's Intuition

Diann Sylvan, The Body Sacred

Carol L. McClelland Phd, Seasons of Change

Elizabeth Owens, Women Celebrating Life

Blessed be.

Honoring Hecate

Tonight, I gathered roses.  I plucked all the heads of the dead and dying roses as the gray sky darkened above the trees.... a crone's sky if ever I saw one.  There's a full moon somewhere behind all the clouds tonight, but Hecate is the goddess of the Dark Moon.  The dark gray blank above my head felt right, somehow, as ashen and dull as the face of a hag. 

I carried my roses, white and pink, scarlet and purple, trailing petals, down to the place where the driveway bridges a brook.  Whoever built this house had some sense of how energy with a capital E works - one must cross running water at least twice to reach the house.  On the bridge, on the driveway, in that place which is neither one place nor another, neither fully earth or air or water, but merely serves as the connecting space between two places, I left my offering of roses. 

I stood awhile, offering my intention, listening to the silence.  When I was ready to go back to the house, I turned to see the how those loose petals I'd dropped before spread out like a bridal path.  

Blessed be.

Eight months, ten days

That's how long it's been since I bled.  My last period began on my fifth wedding anniversary; the one before that on the summer solstice.  I knew I was supposed to pay attention to that one: it coincided with the conception of my granddaughter who was born on my birthday.

I never lack for signs, but I haven't always paid attention as closely as I should.  I want to change that.  This blog is part of that intention. 

Today is the feast of Hecate, goddess of the crossroads, gateways and trash.  In the trinity of Goddesses I honor, she is the Crone, the one who stands beside the final gate.  As I peer through this one, I can see that last one faintly outlined, taking shape.  It doesn't exactly please me, but it doesn't exactly terrify me either.  I'm  more afraid of what the manner of my death might be, than actually dying.  

So here I stand, perched on the final physical passage of my body before its last.  And what I see is a land littered by terrified women clinging to their youth on one hand and a lot of very graceful, beautiful women living rich and vibrant lives on the other.  I'm sure you know on which side of the divide I intend to fall. 

Today I dedicate myself to the journey.  Blessed be.