When you search the word crone on the internet, you find it synonymous with glimmering titles such as HAG, WITCH, BELDAM, as well as simply WOMAN, and (an apparently weak match) UGLY.

When you think it can’t get any more flattering (oh stop it, Oxford, you charmer), I come upon the etymology:

Comes from the Anglo-French word charogne meaning dead flesh. Ah-hem. Then from Wikipedia (not my fave source but nobody’s paying me so…), “a crone is an old woman who may be characterized as disagreeable, malicious, or sinister in manner, often with magical or supernatural associations that can make her either helpful or obsolete.”

Sinister? Obsolete? Dead flesh? I mean, come on!

Since when is being a woman of a certain age synonymous with a word that is synonymous with a shapeshifting soul thieving demon!

Says the world to young wannabe mothers: “Alas, dear MAIDEN, it’s your fate to one day be MOTHER, a brilliantly fecund time of portaging precious souls from one world to the next. You won’t have time to shave your armpits, let alone do your career, and you’ll forever be a walking-talking-scolding snack machine. . . As reward for your trials, in the blink of an eye (having just barely ditched Nerf guns, Lego kits and bunny pasta), you’ll become a bone-tinglingly ugly, maleficent old HAG. It’s not your fault, it’s called womanhood.”

My kids are now 20 and 17. My youngest will graduate high school this year. If all goes as planned, he’ll be at a snowboard academy in the fall and Josh and I will be that word they use for old people—Empty Nesters. Only Josh will be a handsome fifty-something man with ‘sexy’ wrinkles that make him look like the Marlborough Man, and I will be a withered old crone.

One can only live in denial of the cycles of life for so long, and there are so many bits of it to deny: wrinkles, aches, pains, flab, grey hair, chin hair, cynicism, motivation or lack thereof. Not to mention, I just barely got the whole mother thing down.

When Josh and I brought Tyde home from the hospital (btw, I wanted a home/water birth but wasn’t “allowed” for being a “geriatric pregnancy” at age 35), we held him all day long (as you do). We would Eskimo kiss and snuggle, and I would say mostly unremarkable things like “I’m your Mommy” and “Mommy loves you” and spend hours and days and months rolling that word around my tongue—mommy, mommy, mommy. Hmm.

It felt so weird. Me, a mommy? I’m no stroller-pushing, leaky-breast-pad-wearing, ugly-mini-van-driving woman in charge of an actual miniature human— Am I?

One day I was a young (ish) maiden, the world my oyster (ish), the pearl right there, so close I could taste it, the next I was mommy, mom, mother, as my dreams faded to the background along with that precious pearl. It would never be only about me ever again. This did not take months or years to figure out. This came overnight, maiden to mother, just like that.

Without the dang village to hold my hand, becoming a mother was like being tossed into an inferno of wtf-am-I-doing and please-hack-my-nipples-off and why-do-they-cry-so-much and will-he-ever-sleep-properly and oops-he-fell-off-the-change-table-again and. . .

Surprise! Suddenly, I’m 50 (and counting). And this change is feeling almost (not quite) as abrupt as becoming a mother did.

Just when I was getting used to the idea that my entire world pretty much evolves around the handsome lovable buggers—and that being a mom may well be the end-all-be-all (not really, but maybe kinda)—my youngest is packing for college (or snowboard academy or whatever), and I’m being yanked by the river of time, about to be thrusted over yet another thunderous waterfall, only into the depths of something much bigger, much more mystical, then before.

Where maiden was the sky and dreams of what will be, and mother was the earth and dreams of what is, crone is the cosmos, the whole sh-bang, the orderly, harmonious whole. . . Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Crone could not possibly be all those nasty tricksy things they say she is. Crone is the pinnacle, and I, by nature of having made it this far, am becoming the Triple Goddess (thank you very much), the trinity of these three figures united into one (but let’s not get ahead of ourselves).

The Bible says, the Crone is the oldest of the three, and she commands the alchemical power to transform the trials of life, grief and sorrow into the gold of wisdom. Now I can get used to that.

Knowing this, let’s do ourselves (and all women) a favor, let’s change this view of the aging woman from disposable or invisible, or worse, useless, wicked and ugly, to what it truly is—wholeness, under the skin, past the layers and into the the void, deep connection to Source and beauty, a time of wisdom-keeping and sharing, a time to hone our intuition and to guide our loved ones through life’s transitions as we’ve begun to master them.

So, as promised, 5 reasons to embrace my coming croneship. Let’s own the crone!

1. Entering the blood rite of menopause is no small thing. They say that with the “wise blood” of the womb retained, the crone becomes one with magical and visionary properties. Check! I’ll take it.

2. With each passing day the crone’s need for approval lessens. She gets to watch her voice grow stronger, more direct and more true. She becomes emboldened to dance around the wheel of life carefree. Check! Sounds good to me.

3. New crones get to be the youngest in the “group” again. Plus, this group is even cooler than the last. The crone symbolizes the whole sh-bang, the cycle of life (birth, life, death) present in all creation. Heck yes—check!

4. Croning is a thing women are starting to do, a rite of passage to a new era of freedom and personal power (and another great reason for women to gather in ritual and prayer). Check. Check. Check. Who’s down to start a croning club?

5. Crone wisdom is not about having the answers, it’s about having the type of mind that can live in the questions, and that is a really cool place to be. Aaaaand check.

Sacred sister circles? Transformation rituals? Croning club? I am so IN! However, I still have a little time, not much, but it’s not official yet. If you’re wondering what makes it official, you’ll have to ask me in the comments. If you enjoyed this piece, please do like/comment/share, I would LOVE to hear from you.

Smooches, Shannon