Somebody, somebody, has to be the cranky old woman, with compassion and with strength, standing up for old-fashioned values.
And there will always be people telling that cranky old woman that she is being too picky, too trouble making, too obstreperous, too obstructive, too stick in the mud.
But the best cranky old women have a strong sense about when to fight and when to just let other people make their own mistakes, when to stand firm and when only to say a word or two that might make sense later when the bigger picture comes into view.
That’s the gift of maturity, if you choose to take it, the gift of wider vision away from the myopia of desire , way from the blinders of need.
I remember that as a kid I used to say “That may well be true, but you certainly don’t expect me to admit it, do you?”
I can’t imagine myself saying that today. There seems little purpose in denying truth, even if there often also seems little purpose about saying it out loud and pushing it into people’s faces when they are not ready to engage it. It’s about voice and breath, what can be said that might actually be heard, now or down the road.
Someone has to be the cranky old woman, the crone, the seer standing up for connection, for life beyond the imagined walls between us and them, between now and then, between good and bad. Someone has to stand up for context and nuance beyond momentary desire.
And I guess that one of those cranky old women just has to be me.