Ancestors

This evening’s walk began as a search for peace – but became a reckoning. The freshly mown field, once wild and sheltering, now lay exposed. Like the pheasants and rodents scrambling for cover, I too felt stripped bare. My convictions had been tested, my cronehood challenged. And in the silence of the last untouched field, I wept – for my father, for the lessons still unmet, for the weight of walking this path alone.
But the earth listened. The air held me. And later, in a call with my elder Crone – my mother -I was reminded: even crones need guidance. Even in pain, we are never truly alone.
This is the work. This is the becoming.