Wisdom on Your Face

laughWhen my mother turned 50, I sent her a card that declared joyfully “Congratulations, you are now officially a crone!” like she’d been reaching for that moment her entire life.  She was horrified. She felt as if I’d labeled each one of her wrinkles with a proper name; but I, on the other hand, believed the word crone to be the most flattering thing to call a woman. As a child, I couldn’t wait to escape ingénue-hood for when oh when could I be that crone, an old woman who oozed grace and insight from having lived a life, a real gritty passionate life. I once dramatically confessed to my friend Maria, “I can’t wait to be old,” to which she responded in 7-year-old solidarity, “I can’t wait to wear lipstick.” She didn’t understand that “old” for me meant wise.

In pursuit of wisdom, I grew up trying to define it. I assumed that it looked serious–a solemn face furrowed in Deep Meaningful Smart Thought and often staring into the grassy distance. When I spotted people like this, I gazed upon them like a dutiful servant, terribly impressed by what they might know about the world, but never particularly soothed.

As I step into my 30’s (and therefore become supposedly wiser, though I’d trust a toddler’s insight over anyone’s my age), wisdom is begging for a new wardrobe. Be-gg-ing for it.

What I’ve noticed is that the people I respect the most do one thing consistently… Giggle. This does not mean they lack Deep Meaningful Smart Thought. They just don’t look so burdened by it, or so damn serious. They are airy. They are light. They do that bending like a reed in the wind thing.

Desmond Tutu has toiled to transform brutal circumstances into reconciliation. But watch him; he laughs a lot. I once knew a Hindu monk who just laughed and laughed at all of my so-vital-to-me questions. An older friend dying of cancer continues to be about the jolliest, most smiley man you’ll ever meet. Often trauma lives behind the laughter. Like, for example, my neighbor. He and his wife trudged through the snow for dinner last night. I called them beforehand to make sure they liked the purple-red root vegetable that so many people despise. He laughed into the phone, “That’s a long story, but I’ll tell you over some beets.” As we forked roasted beets into our mouths, he told of growing up in the Netherlands during World War II. He, his parents and four siblings survived on beets and tulip bulbs alone–as did the Jewish family they were hiding in the basement. He was laughing as he recounted this memory, but his laughter contained both a profound acknowledgment of that awful reality and an undercurrent of godly bliss. I don’t know how he did it. 

None of this comes naturally to me. I sigh sadly over tragedy. And I like to dig up the dirt, examine it under a microscope and then ponder over it for days. My family teases me about being so serious and my friend Katinka recently chuckled as she read my horoscope out loud to me: “Some people might think you are an intense person. Well, this month…” 

But my brothers do thrive on making me pee in my pants from laughing. So these days I’m trying (and it’s hard!) to spend more time in that place, that geography on my face. The hard-working crowd saving-the-world-with-a-frown doesn’t catch my eye anymore, nor do the forever-analyzing intellectuals. I’m impressed instead by the belly-laughers–those whose wisdom is finding a collective humor and buoyancy in the muck, those who sparkle with awe, those who allow that childlike simplicity to take them right over.


Filed under Orienting

6 responses to “Wisdom on Your Face

  1. sophieeeee

    As a teenager I was was often told how wise I was for my years, and I felt wise. The older I have gotten, the less wise I feel. Maybe it is because the innocence has lessened or maybe it is just because I laugh less! Cheers to giggles!

  2. Kaya

    It’s been neat watching Baby Boomers look at wisdom as they age. I’m with you- the thing I look most forward to in turning 30 is getting over myself and looking bemused without seeming like a prat. But the frantic stay-youngedness that our wise elders are scrabbling for may be a big lesson for how we age gracefully, or what aging means in wisdom.
    On another note, with our students we’ve been talking a lot about knowledge, education, and access. One of my teaching artists asked “what about wisdom?” What do you think the relation is to wisdom and public education, and what should we do with it?

  3. Laurie

    Oh Molly, only you would send a card to you mother calling her a ‘crone’ and think it was a compliment. Giggle.

  4. Lauren

    this is great.

  5. Molly

    Thanks everyone. Kaya, what a big question. Perhaps the relationship between wisdom and public education exists where each one of us finds BOTH the student and teacher within us.

  6. Susan Lilley

    Mol, this column is so you–many facets and shades of the Molly soul in this little piece. And tell mama Mary that it is cool to be a crone! Entering the age of the wise woman is supreme. I have a complete ceremony written (and used joyfully by many) if she wants to have a proper croning! Somehow I doubt it, but maybe in a few birthdays! A joy to be catching up on your columns.