Metamorphosis of the Crone

Dreams, archetypes and the poetry of transformation

“Elder of the Scar Clan” by Joanna Powell Colbert

"We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty." ~ Maya Angelou

Dear Reader,

Today, I’m sharing a poem that began life as a dream three years ago. In this dream, I was visited by three women of different ages – a young girl, my deceased mother (who appeared to be in her mid-thirties) and an elderly hag. Upon waking, I was so excited because, as a poet and Jungian psychotherapist, dreams deeply inspire me, with many ideas for poems and stories coming directly from my nightly adventures.

Recognising the archetypal patterns of the Mother, the Maiden and the Crone, I quickly scribbled down my dream. As I wrote, I noticed a poem starting to emerge on the pages. On and on it went, until thirteen verses later, it finally concluded. Pausing to sit in quiet reflection, I wondered how violets turned into poetry, love and music. I cannot begin to explain it to you, but they did, and it was incredible to witness. Some dreams are like that, aren’t they?

Okay, I'll stop telling and start showing. Let’s dive straight into the poem and into the cauldron of our own bodies and souls as we explore the timeless wisdom of the Crone.

Metamorphosis of the Crone

Last night I had a dream
the Triple Goddess appeared,
first as a dancing girl
who wove violets in my hair,
then as my silent mother
who led me by hand to a mirror.
There, a beautiful, ugly
old hag stood laughing at me
and with her laughter
I began to laugh too,
as each flower metamorphosed
into love, poetry and music. 
	
Music I heard long ago
in the first flowering of life,
now, the playful virgin
who became the loving mother,
was pushing me out 
of my cosy, middle-years nest.
Pulling me into something new
as I stumble past midlife,
to alight upon a silvery path 
that began with waxing maiden,
led to full mother 
and will finish as waning crone.

The chorus sang of singing
with age-ing to sage-ing sisters
beside the cosmic cauldron,
rousing my moon-guided soul 
to metamorphose itself
into a green and juicy crone.
Share your wisdom they cry,
dancing wild and free
around Hestia’s hearth-fire,
liberating the light of the soul
in older, wider bodies
belonging only to themselves.

Praise be, each crone cries,
let the wise-woman within
step forward to claim
Hecate’s Triple Moon crown,
invisible to the world
now all eyes are off her body.
For we crones are no longer 
interested in clearing up others 
piss, shit, puke or lies,
no longer will we serve the ego,
come burn your apron poet,
take down your family nest. 

On waking I grab poetry’s pen,
watching my ink turn red
as I craft with the crones,
while the ripening heart-berries 
of my feminine soul 
dance with conscious delight.
From deep inside the well
of black masculine font, 
my pen slows down
to soul speed, 
as I dive into watery, feminine 
words and worlds. 
	
Let Sophia make herself known,
my hand sings to the pen,
for as poets, writers and artists 
is it not our task to free 
Her Divine radiance 
from the darkness of our matter?
Which way to turn, I howl,
after years of animus dieting
and dancing with hermaphrodites, 
in a world filled with  
distorted feminine mirrors,
where do I find the crones?

Where are the older women 
who no longer binge or starve, 
have self-seeking surgery
to change the way they look,
or still snared in bitchy battles
with their shadowy selves.
Alas, where is the crone
and why does my path lead me
past lines of pouting fillers, 
botoxed faces, tattooed brows, 
photoshopped, augmented,
sixty and seventy year olds.

No, I don’t wish to follow those 
puella fake-lashed women,
those wrinkle-free gurus 
who live comfortably with lies,
while filtering fakery
behind flashy #insta profiles.
Did I use the word women
to portray these caricatures?!
No, where are the crones
those holy hags, green witches,
keepers of keys and torches
in touch with Gaia’s rhythms.

Where are our medicine women,
full of magick and mystery,
the ones who exude
immense love and warmth,
not from beautiful young faces
but from beautiful hearts.
Silver soul-sisters who know 
the ways of hidden things, 
who know that the reality 
of the life of the body 
is deeply connected to the reality 
of the life of the soul. 

She who’s lived through 
endless dark nights   
of death, violence and birth,
yet somehow survived, 
she who knows how to live fully
and is not afraid of death.
She who, when she speaks,
neighbourhoods are wise to listen, 
she who is not afraid to sit
and wait in the darkness,
she who knows what she knows 
and knows what she doesn’t.

Those archetypal big sisters
who journey between worlds,
full of wise innocence,
ancient, yet eternally young,
seeing three ways at once
yet guided by the one moon. 
Respectful of Mother Nature
and all things green,
whose mysteries are understood
in rambling reverence,   
honouring the deeper secrets 
that sleep beneath the earth. 

Come jump inside the cauldron 
of your own body,
drop into Kali’s fiery wisdom
of blood, bone and flesh,
burn and disintegrate, 
let Hecate find you in the ashes.
For inside each of you waits
the soul you are seeking,
to reach Her 
you must transform inwardly,
read between the poet’s lines
to find a way in, not out. 

Take me in your arms old hag, 
wrap me in mystery,
let love, poetry and music
fill my croning years with song,
hold high your twin torches,
illuminate the darkness.
Oh most luminous goddess,
dark mother of the woods, 
my first and last love, 
let my body and soul merge, 
help me metamorphose
into one of Hecate’s holy crones.

“Women’s Roots” by Alma de la Melena Cox

“Individuation is to divest the self of false wrappings.” ~ Carl Jung

Naturally, our aging journeys differ, and what I’ve written may not resonate with you. However, as I age, by allowing myself to slowly become a Crone and Elder, I can feel myself starting to embrace the rich wisdom of my years as I move from ‘role to soul’.

As you read, and maybe even read again, I invite you to reflect on your own aging experiences and the connections you make with these archetypes. How have the Maiden, Mother and Crone archetypes shaped your journey? The Triple Goddesses – Persephone, Demeter and Hecate – spring to mind. Which one calls to you today?

Thank you for reading and for welcoming me with such warmth here on Substack. I hope you enjoyed my weaving of dreams, archetypes and poetry. For those interested, this poem sleeps and dreams inside my third book, Soror Mystica: Balancing the Divine Feminine and Divine Masculine starting on page 86.

Before you go, as you drift off to sleep tonight, don’t forget to leave your journal open, pen beside it, so you too can catch your next creative inspiration. Happy writing and dreaming!

Yours in words, Deborah

If my words strike a chord and you feel inspired to dive deeper into my poetry or explore my essays on Jungian thought, I invite you to visit: The Liberated Sheep