The Dancing Crone

Ever remember to be awesome and forget to be happy?

On Imbolc, of all times?

(OK, I don't make too much of a big deal about Imbolc beyond feeling the general idea in my heart and observing the change in the seasons. Granted, there is a limit to how much I can devote myself to a specific deity like Brigid, since I am not a polytheist like most of my Pagan friends. I believe the different names and forms are parts of the same force--yes, even the ones who seem incompatible with each other. It would be much easier for me as a Pagan if I didn't have this view, but I do.)

The day began appropriately enough. Instead of the first robin of spring, which isn't really a milestone in the Southern USA, I heard the unidentified first songbird of Imbolc. The cat heralded this occasion with some excited chattering at the window, basically cat language for 'Yum.'

I made a mental note to myself that this was sort of an Imbolc thing and ought to be mentioned to someone later. Eventually I got out of bed. I was still just kind of there. Meh.

I decided it was finally time to check out the Saturday morning farmer's market I'd been hearing about for years. It didn't just have produce or soap or orchids or farm-raised alligator meat. It was crowded with people and with innumerable local, beautiful items for sale. I probably could have bought something at all 50 or so booths. I smelled and tasted the most wonderful things I never even knew existed.

But I had an agenda, practically a checklist. Forget 'the gay agenda'--the nominally bi agenda for this event was to buy some veggies and talk to someone about the hula hoop classes. Serious business, that. (Oh yeah, and avoid the booth with the very recent ex-in-laws, at least for now.)

On the way to the hula hoop booth, I saw a grinning, snowy-headed woman in a long skirt and sneakers, dancing in front of the live band. I considered stopping there to dance too. It might please the old woman.

Now, my usual approach is to mosey on into a situation, do something cool for a few seconds, then mosey back into the crowd. It involves walking briskly, half lost in my thoughts, and not going too deeply into any experience for long.

I do not recommend that approach.

This time I danced for more than a few seconds. The happy old woman danced with me. She had pink lipstick on her dentures, but she didn't care.

I stayed and danced through the guitar solo, the bass solo. It was long enough to allow this woman's happiness to rub off on me. I forgot myself and realized I was smiling.

She looked at me from under her big hat and asked for my name, listening intently. She said hers was June.

Joy and June. Earlier, that would have been another mental note, another impressively poetic idea to share. At this point, it didn't even compare to the moment itself.

When the song was over we waved goodbye and I headed for the hula hoops, but now I felt different. I was smiling, with a smidgen of a good kind of cry behind my eyes somewhere. Moments are a little overwhelming when you're not used to them.

I intend to have more moments. I intend to make time for them and show up fully for them. I am already alive and do not need to hurry to the end. The Crone knows this, and it makes her happy. I intend to remember the same and let it make me happy every day.

So mote it be!