A Quest for the Fountain of Truth

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash

I am of the melting age. The sliding years. The slipping times.

I am of the age where the skin on my face is beginning to sag and fold, my waist is thickening as my skin is thinning, and I know I need to move slowly and warm up before moving quickly.

The under years — those years when the targeted ads turn my attention to creams and garments meant to lift that which is falling.

In the common narrative, this is the time when I would begin my quest for the Fountain of Youth. I am to ingest the vitamins, slather on the serums, and move through the exercises that will return my body to some previous state of vitality. (Or at least halt the progress of time for a while.) I am invited to step out of the river of time and stand still.

I don’t like standing still. And, if I’m honest, I didn’t much like being young. That whole Fountain of Youth quest always struck me as just another chance for white men to conquer something and pretend they thought of it in the first place. I need a new narrative.

I have been digging back into the myths and stories of my ancestors, the Celts. I find myself drawn more and more to the Crone. That wise old woman by the fire who has been maligned and forgotten for ages. Even the dictionary is disrespectful to her, defining her as “on old woman who is thin and…