Maiden, Mother, Crone

by Mindy Halleck

As a sun-kissed Maiden she clung to love
Smiled at flirtatious glances
But soon learned to avoid the male gaze
And to stop giving men second chances.

She loved with the slender body of youth––
and birthed from her swollenness.
She experienced the deep crevice between
the Devil’s lies
and the gospel truth
in all its god-forsaken unholiness.

She tried to hold on, break the descent
soften the sorrow of her own fallenness––
The agonizing plunge from a youth spent
echoes with the sound of hollowness.

As a mother, she loved that child
born like a pearl from her iridescent shell––
birthed again and again.
––One child calm as a sunrise
The other
A wild child with curious brown eyes.
––and she somehow survived the octopus-like limbs of her children.

That slender body lost and found only to be lost again …
She was no longer what she’d once been.
… And woe the betrayals of men.
She learned to let go of things she once clung to
To rebuff what she once allowed in
Wicked things that seeded and then crawled under her skin.

As a Crone she has moved beyond her Maiden tears
Forgotten men’s lies
And has conveniently unremembered her childbearing years.
She knows that discovering a good soul is like looking for a lighthouse in the darkest of night
It’s only through the pupil in his eyes––
where you see true light.

As Crone she enters a period of insightful wisdom
innermost strength and spiritual renaissance.
She develops an air of nonchalance.
She bears scars from the stages of her woman’s life proudly
They healed her blindness; birthed like pearls
without them she couldn’t see.

The wicked things that once crawled beneath her skin
Are denied their ravening.
She sheds the caterpillar husk
freeing the girl for her final awakening.

Crone knows her hands are probes from the soul
Giving and searching for love––
The Maiden’s embrace––
Lover’s caress––
Mother’s touch––
Crone’s grace ...
Always seeking to give and receive love
Familiar, recognizable as the coo of a mourning dove.

Crone’s weathered hands are now those of a gardener.
Fully alive with rich soil beneath her fingertips
She heals
Restores.
Aware of her life’s looming eclipse.

She plants for a tomorrow she may not see.
… casting a long shadow for those who follow
Photographs of love, fruits, veggies, a tiny house by the sea.

Long gone is the slender body of youth––
Crone embraces her wrinkles and widening hips
Afternoon tea
and enthusiastically values good fish-n-chips.

She dons her crown of seashells
Each shell a treasure from her grandchildren
laced together with a golden strand of love.
She sits on the seawall
Dangles her bare feet
Nods to the dark-skinned Selkies who have kept her company since her one good man
The lighthouse in her darkness
Died.
The Selkies
bobbing, floating on gray-blue waves
nod back.
Crone knows she once swam with them
and soon
she will again.

When her time comes, her personal apocalypse
she’ll undergo the life review.
She’s lived many lives
Been many women
… Worn the many faces of Eve.
Made so many mistakes
Learned to love
Learned to grieve.

She’ll give herself grace saying
I was once a maiden; I didn’t know what to do.
Then as mother I birthed life and began again.
And now as crone
I see the futility of my journey and yet the beauty contained within.

I now see myself as a fat happy butterfly.
Eating fish-n-chips by the sea waiting
For God to remember me.