Head Tenants-The Crone

I think you should all know-I have multiple characters living in my head. I don't mean the ones I write stories about, allegorical or humorous. I mean the ones who counsel me constantly (and often unwelcomely) about how to live my life. Yes, as much as I constantly proclaim my strength in independence, the truth is-I am not alone in here.

There is a carefree spirit about seven years old, who is always telling me to go dance in the rain, swim out to the BIG waves, and pretend to throw bits of bread to families of geese. She has gotten me bitten by a giant papa goose (on the bum, may I add), nearly lost in both the middles of lakes as well as titanic waves in the ocean, and several colds plus a nasty case of neumonia. I try to not listen to her much anymore.

You've already heard a little about the mix of teenage spunk with goddess of chaos micheivous character. She's a little like smoke and when she speaks I see laughing eyes coming out of the gloom with a cheshire cat grin and I cannot help but listen.

Then there is a scholarly woman in her late twenties with librarian glasses and a stern expression. Picture a slightly older version of Hermione Granger. She is always lecturing me about the importance of my school work, the dire need to learn all, to be the master of wisdom! She stresses me out frankly, and I think my anxiety problems (that I now have a perscription for btw, how sad is that?) probably come from her.

There is an ageless motherly figure who speaks kindly in gentle tones and sings all the time, and she forces me to stop and stare at babies whenever I see them in the grocery stores or church hallways. Even waving a cute children in zoo's, parks, and public events. Sadly she gets me all sorts of suspicious looks. But since she also manages the sweetest moments in my life I forgive her for those.

I could mention a few more but I think I will skip on down the list now to the character who is both my favorite and most hated head-tenant of the group. The Crone. She is the grandmother of all grandmothers, the ancient power of reasoning and self-protection. She speaks with the might and power of not only my mother but every young women leader I have ever had, every grandmother, every ward matron, every aunt, and even every sister. That is a lot of Spiritual power-in case you were wondering. Naturally, with all that power behind her voice she drowns the cries of the others when she speaks, which she does quite often. In fact, I have yet to figure out a way to shut the old bird up. No offense to all you wonderful people who have inspired the growth of her personality over the years, I am speaking strictly of the arguments that she likes to have with me over every decision I make on a day to day basis.

Ok, let me explain the annoyance factor to you. First there is the way she sounds, which when she is happy is great-sweet toned and beautiful actually-but when she is angry or annoyed with me it is like nails on a chalkboard. It is like cut up glass in a blender, only magnified to the power of the sound of fireworks when you are sitting in the middle of the feild right below the magnificent show of sparks. It is dangerous. She may even be the sole reason I am losing my hearing in my left ear.

Then there is the way she looks (again when she is ANGRY, when she is happy she looks like my beautiful great-grandmother Leola, who was the most gloriously gorgeous person I have ever seen in my life, especially in her old age) which resembles the small nylon made, grimace-smile wearing figurines my mother so loves which are entitled the Relief Society Sisters. I cannot accurately describe to you the humor and horror of these little ladies and so I will include a picture.



Ah. See? There she is. Isn't that just a little frightening? Tell me she wouldn't grab your attention faster than a charging hippopotamus.

Already today she has made that face about how my room looked when I woke up (I was WAY too tired after babysitting last night to tidy up), my lack of desire to eat anything healthy for breakfast when I woke up (I had cheerios with sugar on top and a lovely bag of gummy bears thankyou ;), and my expressed desire to bring some deep golden color to my ghostly white glowing body.

"UV rays are bad for you!" She screeches. "They will make you prematurely old, shrivel up your organs and give you skin cancer! Do you want to look like me?!"

Alright, so she has a point with that last one, but still. You see, my skin doesn't act like the rest of the human race's. Anyone else who had been tanning once a week for three months (it was free with my apartment) would be a lovely brown color and ready for summer beach trips by now. What do I have to show for it though? The scars of two small blisters in the center of my back and almost no color to my arms and legs AT ALL. Really, I tan rather wonderfully-in the blistering heat of the Idaho summer sun on the reflective waters of Bear Lake staying out ALL day for two weeks. In winter and in Washington there is apparently no earthly amount of tanning lotion, watered down sunshine or fake UV rays that can penetrate by determinedly WHITE epidermus. It is entirely frustrating.

"You should glory in your white skin," says she, "particularly if it matches the unearthly tone of your stomach (which has never seen the sun) because it represents the power of your comittment to the truths you have been taught from the cradle! It shows your desire to serve by helping in the home, instead of lounging about on beaches. It is a mark of HONOR."

"This," say I, "is a bunch of bull-pucky. You know as well as I that if I had constant access to a beach I would be out there all day Every day. You know I want my skin to be a lovely shade of golden brown and have worked on vacations previous tirelessly to make it so. You know that if I could make my stomach as golden brown as my arms get out on that lovely lake without trouble I would do it in a heartbeat."

At this she gives a horrified gasp. "Where is that charming young lady I was speaking to in the temple the other night?" She demands haughtily. "I want to talk to the girl who was considering wearing dresses with sleeves to her wrists, skirts to her ankles and necklines without any sort of downward movement after the line of the sleeve meets the line of the dress. Where is the young woman with the standards."

Great. Now I feel like a two-year-old charlatan with devil horns poking out of my obviously overly-hard head. Excuse me, she is now telling me that that loud obnoxious beeping sound I've been trying to block out is the laundry calling for me and I should really stop shirking my responsibilities and go take care of it. Is anyone looking for a head-tenant? Contact me at 1-800-my-crone.