The first funeral I remember being aware of, I did not see. It was early on a Saturday afternoon, I believe, when the funeral procession began its slow, dignified journey down our street. I was about eight years-old at the time and, since I’d never seen a funeral before, I jumped up to peek out the window to watch the procession pass.
For a woman whom I thought, at that time, was worn out, slow as a snail, and just plain ancient, my Grandmother was out of her chair, drawing the curtains and instructing me to sit down, be respectful, and be quiet, so quickly, I was stunned into immediate compliance! But, still, my mouth shot open to ask questions and, just as swiftly the look on my Grandmother’s face, the slow shake of her head, and the downward cast of her eyes told me to hold my tongue and keep it that way. Nanny folded her hands in her lap and lowered her head. I copied her, but I was squirming in my seat with curiosity and kept canting my eyes toward the window to see if I could catch a peek through a crack in the drapes. We sat there for about five (long, long, agonizing) minutes... waiting and waiting (I later found out) for the funeral director to end the funeral march (a slow walk, one foot directly behind the other, from the point of departure to the first junction in the road) and get into the hearse. I remember hearing the clock ticking in what appeared to be suspended animation and it seemed to me that everything had become stuck in the time it was measuring, like treacle pouring from a spoon.
Then there was the one and only time I remember meeting my Great Great Grandmother. I had no interest in such a meeting, I can tell you. “Must I?” I asked my mother. Not only was the answer an instant and very firm, “yes, you must!” but it came with some other very specific instructions, too…
- You will be respectful.
- You will pay close attention to Great Gran--attention to everything about her--the way she looks, the way she talks, the things she says.
- If she does not look, smell, talk, or behave the way you would expect her to--keep your mouth shut about it!
- Be polite.
- Be attentive.
- Eat nicely and treat her china with care!
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I remember thinking, “she’s just an old lady, why all this fuss?”
Why indeed?
At the time, of course, I had no idea why my Grandmother would be so particular about funeral etiquette for a complete stranger--or why my Mother was so insistent that I remember everything I possibly could about my Great Great Grandmother--a woman my Mother knew full well I’d likely never see more than once in my entire life. These things seemed like “silly old people stuff” to me. Because I was young. Mercifully, I have since outgrown that.
It is, perhaps, easy to grasp the concept (academically at least) that wisdom comes with age, but the real truth--the hidden secrets of wisdom--are privy only to those who have actually reached their Age of Wisdom. And, if you are one of my students, right about now you are saying “Whoa! Slow the broomstick down there Winnie… what’s all this ‘their’ crap? What happened to THE Age of Wisdom??!” (Or, words to that effect--my students are generally more articulate than my dramatic license would seem to imply.)
O.K., so Wisdom, obviously, is not granted to us at a certain age like the tooth fairy dishes out money when your baby chompers fall out. Wisdom is not a rite of the passage of time, anymore than good sexual judgement is a rite of the arrival of puberty. Wisdom is far trickier than that! It sneaks up on a person, gradually insinuating itself on the consciousness, smoothing off the rough edges of bloody mindedness, gently broadening the constricted passageways of narrow mindedness, and bringing to flower the buds of old ideas, bearing new and totally unexpected fruit. Some, of course, move more swiftly along this transitional path than others, but this is due, in large part, to the influence of Reincarnation, Karma, and a multitude of other things that also become more clear as we age.
The thing is, Triplicity is the key.
What?! (I hear you asking.) O.K., Winnie, where did that come from? Well, let’s take a little walk and I will explain…
As Pagans, I’d hazard a guess that we’ve all heard of The Maiden, The Mother, and The Crone, right? After all, it’s the model of Triple Deity that drives the spiritual reality of many a Coven, many a Solitary Practitioner, indeed, many Pagan groups of all kinds. But, what do we call its counterpart? What is the archetype of the masculine form of Triple Deity?
At this point, I usually hear a student yelling, “Well, duh! The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit--just ask any Christian, they’ll tell ya!” And, they would be right--for Christians. Furthermore, if they said this model of The Divine is perfectly correct--for Christians--I’d be giving them a high five pointed star. But, why does it not work as a model for The Divine for us, for we CSC Pagans? Because we see the Divine as we see ourselves--reflected in the image of.
Grrr… Of what? Winnie! There you go again (I hear you say), messing with our heads! (You’re very loud today, I like that.)
Maiden, Mother, Crone. Beautiful and balanced: The Triplicity of the Divine Feminine. No matter where we are on the Wheel of Life, we are all possessed of the Divine Feminine--male or female, old or young, gay or straight--we are all a reflection of The Goddess.
We are also, equally, a reflection of The God. The terms I use for the God aspect of Triplicity are: Youngman, Father, and Sage. Beautiful and balanced. The Triplicity of the Divine Masculine. Just like the Triplicity of The Divine Feminine, we are all of us--no exceptions--also possessed of the Divine Masculine--male or female, young or old, gay or straight--we are all a reflection of The God.
But, what has this to do with funerals, old ladies, and all the other stuff I’ve been prattling on about? One word: Respect. Come on, let’s put it all together…
All those years ago, when my Grandmother was admonishing me not to peer out the window to gawk at a passing funeral, it came down to this: A Crone (my Grandmother) was teaching me (a child in the Maiden years) to respect the pain of the grieving. She was teaching me how to become a Crone myself one day. She was showing me that the rituals of life are important and to be deeply respected, just as we are to respect The Divine.
When my Mother was telling me, in no uncertain terms, how to behave in front of my Great Great Grandmother, she was teaching me, among a plethora of other things, a vital lesson about respect--but not just for Gran, but for my Mother as she is now and, for my own aging process the way my Mother was wise enough to see it would one day be for me. She knew, thanks to the benefit of wisdom, that the day would come when I would wish I could remember the last time I saw Gran, the one and only time we took tea together, how she looked, talked, behaved--who my Gran was. Blessed Be that “silly old people stuff,” because it was thanks to the wisdom of my Mother that I now have any memories at all of taking tea with an old, old lady when I was a wee girl…
She had soft, white, cotton candy hair and kind, gentle eyes. Her body was frail and I swear she looked like she would snap like a toothpick at the slightest touch. But, she wore a dainty floral dress and held her china teacup with such care and elegance that I thought she must surely be Royalty. She was a Crone. A beautiful, serene Crone who taught her daughters well.
To this day, I always wear a hat to a funeral, take tea in a china cup, and vigorously teach respect for the Crone and Sage to the young people in my Soul Circle. We Pagans should set a strong example for the young we raise, we should teach our children to value the wisdom of the elderly, and we can do this best by setting the example. It is simply not enough to tell our children to show respect, we must diligently show respect ourselves, we must scrupulously show good manners ourselves, and we must honor the Wisdom of the Ages--out loud, out proud, and fully Pagan!
Winnie
