Today when I was packing to visit my family in Seattle, I came across an old travel brochure for Moorea in French Polynesia, which I thought at one time I’d visit. The cover showed a resort with thatched huts on stilts in the water, which was a beautiful transparent aquamarine, and I thought, I wish I could have done that. And I immediately realized I could do that if I really want to…the only thing holding me back is me. I could find the money, even though it would be quite a stretch, and I can take the time off work, so what’s holding me back? I think when I say I wish, I mean I wish I could imagine having fun by myself or I wish I were more spontaneous, or I wish I knew what I really wanted to do. I’m taking a book with me called The Wishing Year and I hope it gives me some insight into how to make wishing less wistful and more purposeful. Wish me luck.

It’s easy for me to be philosophical and full of hope when things are going well, but I don’t always set a great example for myself or anyone around me when things don’t go my way. Yesterday several things came unraveled at once, and I threw myself onto my unmade bed and sobbed into the pillow for a long time for no reason and every reason: the unmade bed, the grandson I love who can’t find his way, my daughter’s illness, problems at work, my lack of ideas, the broken dishwasher, my screwed-up knee, the stupid purchase I didn’t need that showed up in the mail just when I was worrying about money, a skirt that was suddenly too tight and nothing in the house to eat but flax chips and hummus (any connection with the tight waistband?). I can make up the bed, return the purchase and get the dishwasher fixed, but I have to admit that there are some things on that list that are too big for me, things I don’t know how to solve, things that I can only hand over to the universe, the great spirit, the holy fixer of broken hearts and people. I’m learning how to be in the dark and wait.

Today on my way to work, I got caught in the staging of the St. Patrick’s Day parade and couldn’t get to my parking lot. I had no choice but to sit in my car at a standstill until the parade got underway. My reaction? Petulance, anger, irritation at all things Irish. But instead of feeling trapped in my car, I could have pulled out my Kindle (purchased for the purpose of passing time during travel and traffic jams), listened to an audio book on my iPhone or just enjoyed the craziness of the scene, like spotting the doctor who gave me my colonoscopy wearing a leprechaun costume. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get that out of my mind. And what was so urgently awaiting me at work?  Nothing that couldn’t have waited, nothing that was going to change the world. When I finally pulled into my parking space, I realized what a jerk I’d been, and I was disappointed in the part of me that is so self-important she can’t be stalled in traffic, so lacking spontaneity that she can’t enjoy a parade, so impatient she can’t be entertained by her own thoughts for 15 minutes!  So many lessons still to be learned.

If you are stringing cranberries and popcorn while you listen to the Kings College Choir boys do their angelic thing, or if you are watching a Christmas parade with your children home on vacation from Ivy League schools, or if you are getting a lump in your throat every time

I’ve been hearing about Croning ceremonies a lot recently (I guess I’m eligible now), and I just don’t want to be one. Why do men celebrate their midlife crises by buying a sports car, but we’re supposed to be rebirthed as wise women and revered elders, who just coincidentally are also invisible in this culture? Crones might be central figures in fairy tales, but for an archetype to have continuing mythic power, doesn’t it have to be relevant to the way we live now?Otherwise we’re just pretending to each other. If you’re lucky enough to gain some power at that age like a Madeleine Albright or Hillary, it’s usually at the price of being sexless. You put on your pantsuits and collect brooches and never give off a whiff of musk, just old lady lavender. But if you dare to speak truth to power or speak too loudly, the other side of cronedom is invoked–the hag, the witch, the malicious old woman. Not so men. The older and grayer, the sexier and more sought after. And they’re certainly not chasing crones their own age. Maybe women who are involved in the Crone movement and menopause workshops hope to change the way our culture regards older women. I admire them for that, but I don’t want to be a Crone any more than I want to be a Cougar. I hope as I age that I’ll find more to me than I ever imagined, an identity that doesn’t require either workshopping or bedhopping to discover.