Crabbit Old Woman/Man (Author Unknown)

This appeared in the Christmas edition of "Beacon House News", the magazine of the Northern Ireland Mental Health Association.

What do you see nurses , what do you see?
What are you thinking when you look at me?
A crabbit old woman , not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with far away eyes
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply.
Then you say in a loud voice "I do wish you'd try".
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.
Unresisting or not , lets you do as you will
With bathing or feeding, the long day to fill.
Is that what you're thinking, Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes nurse, you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still.
As I move at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of 10 with a father and mother
And brothers and sisters who love one another.
A girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon, a lover she'll meet.
A bride soon at 20--my heart gives a leap.
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five I have young of my own,
Who need me to build a secure, happy home.
A woman of thirty my young now grow fast,
Bound together with ties that forever should last.
At forty my young ones have grown up and gone,
But my man is beside me to see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knees.

Again we know children, my loved ones and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead
I look at the future, I shudder with dread
For my young are all rearing, young of their own
And I think of the years and the love I have known.
I am an old woman now, nature is cruel.
Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart .
There is a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass, a young girl still dwells
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain
And I'm loving and living life over again.
I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes nurses, open and see
not a "Crabbit Old Woman", look closer, see "Me".

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Earth Medicine (Jamie Sams - based on the 28 moontime cycles of women)

"Her old bones creaked
And her pace was slow
But her smile was blindingly bright.
Her mind was sharp,
And her voice was kind,
Her manner was a true delight.

The world had changed
In the winters she'd known,
But she bore their weight with pride.
She shared her wisdom
And passed the goodness on,
Using her love of life as her guide.

She did not bow to time,
Using life as her stage,
She sought each morning's joy,
And she was never defeated by age.

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Earth Prayers: Circles of our Lives (Wendell Berry)

"Wtihin the circles of our lives
we dance the circles of the years,
the circles of the seasons
within the circles of the years,
the cycles of the moon
within the circles of the seasons,
the circles of our reasons
within the cycles of the moon.

Again, again we come and go,
changed, changing. Hands join,
unjoin in love and fear,
grief and joy. The circles turn,
each giving into each, into all.
Only music keeps us here.

Each by all the others held.
In the hold of hands and eyes
we turn in pairs, that joining
joining to each to all again.

And then we turn aside, alone,
out of the sunlight gone
into the darker circles of return."

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Finding Her Here (Jayne Relaford Brown)

I am becoming the woman I've wanted,
gray at the temples, soft body, delighted,
cracked up by life
with a laugh that's now bitter
but, past it, got better
knows she's a survivor -
that whatever comes,
she can outlast it.
I am becoming a weathered basket.

I am becoming the woman I've longed for,
the motherly lover
with arms strong and tender,
the growing up daughter
who blushes surprises
I am becoming full moons
and sunrises.

I find her becoming,
this woman I've wanted,
who knows she'll encompass,
who knows she's sufficient,
knows where she's going
and travels with passion.
Who remembers she's precious,
but knows she's not scarce --
who knows she is plenty,
plenty to share.

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Girl Talk (Author Unknown)

My thighs were snatched from me during the night of March 22nd. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been wholly, if imperfectly, mine for 34 years? Whose thighs were these? What happened to mine?

I spent that entire summer looking for them. I searched, in vain, at pools and beaches, anywhere I might find female limbs exposed. I became obsessed: I had nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh that turns to bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.

Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My buns were next. I knew it was the same gang because they took pains to match my new derriere -- although badly attached at least 3 inches lower than the original -- to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. Now my rear complimented my legs lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.

It was 2 years when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning while fixing my hair, I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and from with the motion of the hairbrush.

This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, a section at a time.

Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Aged was supposed to creep up, unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity.

No, I was being attacked, repeatedly and without warning.

During the spring of my 36th year, my attention was rived to upper arms -- female arms. I studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine in public nor flatten them too tightly against my body. In private I held them straight out and did endless circles that would have tightened my real arms but did nothing for these Silly-Putty caricatures. In the end, in deepening despair, I gave up my arms and my T-shirts. What could they do to me next?

In short order, my right boob could hold a pencil (it seemed particularly cruel to take just one). And my eyes began to remind people that they needed a new pair of Hush Puppies. My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now reminded me of.

That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't take on the medical profession by myself. Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee! That ain't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. You know where they're getting those replacement parts, don't you?

The next time you suspect someone has had a face "lifted," look again. Was it lifted from you? Check out those tummy tucks and buttock raising. Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on that movie star? I think I finally may have found my thighs. I hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them.

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Goodbye To All (Author Unknown)

No more periods, no more pain,
No more trying to be gloriously vain.

No more worrying day by day,
When kids are late and stay away.

No more striving after unreal wishes,
No more sinks of dirty dishes.

No more menopause no more flushes
No more adolescent crushes.

No more darning children's socks,
No more chasing round the clock.

No more cleaning others messes,
No more back combing unruly tresses.

No more arguing day by day
What to wear and what to say.

No more belief that men are stronger,
Women are tough and we live longer.

No more victim, no more affairs,
No more flaunting of physical wares.

No more pretense this is me,
No sleeping princess or false modesty.

What I am is what I do,
Even if it won't please you.

No more leaving things unsaid,
No more wishing I was dead.

No more guilt, no more scorn,
I may be old - but I am glad I was born.

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Growing Older (Author Unknown)

Lord, you know better than I know myself that I am growing older and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.

Release me from craving to try to straighten out everybody's affairs.
Make me thoughtful, but not moody, helpful but not bossy.
With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but You know, Lord, that I want a few friends.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing and the love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by.

I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others' pain, but help me to endure them with patience.

I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessening cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a saint - some of them are so hard to live with - but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil.

Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places and talents in unexpected people. And give me Lord, the grace to tell them so... Amen

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Grandmas (Author: Unknown)

My lap is big and roomy, made
To hold a child or two,
My legs are strong and sturdy,
Muscles built for rocking you.

My arms were made to hold you
And my hands to smooth your hair,
My eyes made to behold you--
You're the twinkle that's found there.

I have ears to listen to you
Anytime you want to talk
And two sturdy feet to join you
When you take the time to walk.

I have barrelsful of laughter
For the silly jokes you tell.
I have a storehouse full of sympathy
When you're not feeling well.

I will always make time for you,
When you need me I'll be here.
I will kiss away your nightmares
And hug away your fears.

All I ask is that you love me
Even when I'm old and gray.
I will always be your Grandma,
And I'll love you, come what may.

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The Grandmother's Grandmother (Anne Johnson ©1996)

It comes to us all, every woman,
it's guises many:
lingering illness,
children grown,
perhaps a job that no longer matters.

We weren't expecting it:
the knock at the door,
a stranger,
yet,
in some uncanny way,
familiar:
like a memory from lifetimes ago.

An ancient crone beckons us;
we go,
feeling uncertain.
Her arms reach out in welcome.
We melt into her comforting warmth.

The destination of this journey
is the same for each:
time to let go,
mother no more.

How different we feel,
distanced,
as if watching the lives around us
from afar.
In our heart the love is there,
just as always,
yet changed somehow.

Though compassion remains;
no longer do we try,
futilely,
to fix:
people's lives;
relationships;
people's hearts.

We offer love,
encouragement,
our prayers:
the rest we leave to them.

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Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall (Author Unknown)

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Do you have to tell it all?
Where do you get the glaring light,
To make my clothes look just too tight?
I think I'm fine but I can see,
you won't cooperate with me;

The way you let the shadows play,
You'd think my hair was getting gray.
What's that, you say? A double chin?
No, that's the way the light comes in;
If you persist in peering so,
You'll confiscate my facial glow,
And then if you're not hanging straight,
You'll tell me next I'm gaining weight;

I'm really quite upset with you,
For giving this distorted view;
I hate you being smug and wise,
O, look what's happened to my thighs!
I warn you now, O mirrored wall,
Since we're not on speaking terms at all,
If I look like this in my new jeans,
You'll find yourself in smithereens!

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