MEMOIR AND POLY-CRISIS
MEMOIR AND POLY-CRISIS
What is the value of reflecting on our lives and harnessing the teachings of our personal histories in a time of poly-crisis? How will that make a difference?
I would like to initiate this inquiry by stating, loudly and clearly, that I speak from the perspective of a crone, and from that perspective the very concepts of “personal history” and “making a difference” are revised and reframed, alchemized by the crone prism.
Our memoirs are acts of defiance. And defiance is the hotbed of intelligence aroused by the narcissistic power play that wreaks havoc on our lives. That in a nutshell is poly crisis. The meltdown of Western civilization is determined by ignorance, and that ignorance will defeat itself. It should also be obvious, however, that this ignorance is simultaneously clever. The cleverness is manipulative, psychologically astute, and commonly accepted as "lifestyle" or even, sadly, "culture." Crones redefine this when they voice their truth.
Our memoirs, in myriad forms (poems, stories, novels, art, dance, music, fiction and nonfiction), are time capsules of the indestructible wisdom that unites all beings. They are testimonies to what survives and they are beacons for the children of the future. Never doubt this.
Despite the massive money-fueled power play that aims to make it appear that your life is insignificant, the opposite is true. Now is when the voiceless make themselves known as the drivers of true hope. Despite the portrayal of elders as increasingly less competent and viable, the opposite is true. I demonstrate this in my unstoppable creativity and my commitment to refining what I bring forward so that it speaks convincingly to my readers with whom I have an endearing, loyal relationship.
I challenge you to write a memoir poem, sing a memoir song, do a memoir dance, and create art from the raw materials of your exquisite existence. Hone it. Craft it. Allocate the time do this. Do not allow anyone to steal this from you. Prioritize this above all else.
It is in the direct interaction that you have with your words, your process, your time, and your voice that mastery arises. I dare you to discover your empowerment and to share it with the world. If you need support, schedule a Crone Session with me. Just message me here to receive the nutrients you need to voice your truth. There is nothing more important than this. Invest in your Original Brilliance. You were born to do this.
I will start you off with a memoir poem that is fresh out of my creative oven. Look for more Crone Speak posts coming your way about the value of memoir in a time of poly-crisis.
Once I Was as Beautiful as the Summer Night: A Memoir Poem
Once I was as beautiful as the summer night.
My great mane of untamable hair was
My flag of independence,
My calling card, my unspoken introduction.
That wiry maze of boundary lines was
Displayed as an anti-courting dance,
To defend again the many suitors who I preferred not to see.
In that time there was no difference between my writing and my life.
I lived as if I was the poem, the novel, the essay in constant progress,
And every word I spoke was dialogue for my screenplay.
This was a dangerous time.
Only God saved me from the
The splintering of my selfhood
That paraded before my mirror.
Now, I wear instead the face of what we have lost
In our choice to live for selfishness
Rather than for each other.
This has sobered and stilled me, and at last I know
There is no security in the ordinary world.
I need not seek for it there.
The sacred plants are littered with cast off containers,
And into the mother trees the
Despairing children carve their curses,
The vituperative spew of their frustration,
That which we have evoked in them.
They are lost,
And so are we, their parents.
We have spent all the money
And used up the oil, down to the dregs,
That we are bent on extracting.
Plastic oozes from our ears
And our babies are born
Before they are ready.
The infections are everywhere
And the ancient ways must be
Reconfigured to meet the crises
Wrought by warped minds
For all to endure.
In my wild days I met all my defeats with poems.
What kind of cry is that?
It is the heart’s arms reaching for the human family.
Now my hair is thin,
My face is lined and spotted,
My breasts sink to meet my hungry belly,
And my legs calculate more carefully the mountain’s ascent.
And still, all I can offer this landscape of crumbling lives,
Are poems.
They are the indestructible beauty of a summer night
That once I wore
And now I must be.
And into that now,
I disappear.
And what remains?
The unfurling black cape
Bordered with cool breeze and star fire,
The beauty of a summer night.