Gimme Shelter

I’ve been thinking about strength and aging. It started because I feeling guilty — as I do a couple of times a week at least — for keeping my cats indoors. None of my previous cats had been indoor-only. But when these three arrived as tiny kittens eight years ago, I was living in a house that had two awful pitbulls living in the backyard (long story, don’t ask). They truly were vicious, snarling and tearing ferociously at the wooden fence with their strong jaws, and the thought of the kittens straying back there was terrifying. When I moved to the country, I thought it would be ideal for them to go outside, but then there were coyotes and foxes and hawks and many feral cats, and two of my neighbors lost their cats within the first few months I lived there, so . . . no. I found myself living with what had once been inconceivable to me: keeping animals “prisoner” inside. The fact that they show no interest at all in going outside, are perfectly content, get lots of exercise, are playful and healthy and have never had an injury (or a flea!), have access to lots of fresh air and sunshine, well, it still never really sat right with me, and maybe it never will, on some level.

But the other day I had a revelation about all this. I realized that the reason I don’t let the cats go outside is not just for their safety. It’s because I don’t feel strong enough anymore to handle it if something terrible happened to them. I just can’t bear as much as I could when I was younger. I always assumed that I would get stronger and tougher as I got older. The feisty, outspoken Crone full of wisdom and true authority has been the model in front of me, as a Goddess woman. But what’s going on within the heart of that Crone? What does she need to really feel strong and safe? Our society treats Little Old Ladies as fragile, not just physically, but emotionally, psychically. As much as we are moving toward respecting Crones, we still tend to speak more gently and shelter them from harshness, even to the point of being patronizing. Life does take a toll, and the stresses of life add up. Sometimes I do need to be treated with more gentleness than when I was younger. My skin is thinner, my antennae are more sensitive. My brain is full of too much noise. My heart has broken and been repaired too many times, so that I just want to place it carefully on a shelf, out of the way, and hope no one bumps it again.

I guess it all comes down to faith, as always, faith that I will find the strength for whatever comes. And it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop taking chances or taking Foolish leaps when the spirit moves me. I’m certainly not going to stop being feisty or outspoken. But I’m also going to take one of the perks of aging and give myself permission be sheltered sometimes. I’m going to forgive myself for keeping the cats inside. I’m going to continue to set limits on what enters my world in terms of harshness, meanness, ugliness, rudeness, vulgarity, stupidity. When I feel I need it, I’m going to treat myself like a Little Old Lady. Back in the olden days, people wore mourning clothes for a long time after a death, to let others know that they were in a fragile state and should be treated gently. I think we should have something like that now, some kind of token that lets others know when we’re feeling tender around the edges, open-hearted, vulnerable, and should be handled with care. A scrap of old lace tied around my wrist, perhaps — just below my soaring raven tattoo.