While the fairies sleep through the winter, Mother Moon watches over all our dreams.
Deep in the woods or high on a mountaintop, in the middle of the ocean or the middle of a meadow, the oldest of the witches perform their moon dances in cloaks of red and white and black and gray. At the moment of the moon’s fullest, the cloaks are thrown off, and the sweat turns to ice as the wisdom of the ages is frozen in time.
The crones know everything. They know that the magick is always getting stronger. There is no sadness in the loss of youth, because the power of age is greater than the fluttering of old. Nothing is taken away with the passage of time. Even the moon dance gets easier.
It falls upon Mother Moon and her crones to educate the younger ones, who will never believe that being old is better than being young, until they reach this place where the old witches are now, and the crones can’t blame them for their youth, having enjoyed that place immensely.
As the cloaks are returned to the icy bodies after the dance, the ice melts into tears for the losses that are a necessary piece of eventual wisdom. At each full moon, the body is cleansed and renewed, ready to experience all that has happened in the past and all that will happen in the future.
The beauty of the universe lies within the folds of the wrinkles.