Monday, March 20, 2006
The gifts have changed, but not the curses
From the RoundTable blog
Read the latest entries
The "aunts" and surrogate grandmothers have gathered 'round this baby girl to give their gifts. They are all Women of a Certain Age.
In another age, in another type of story, they would have been called the fairy godmothers, or the wise women or even the witches. In this age, in this story, they have no collective name; their status derives only from their position as friends of the true grandmother.
In this age, the gifts they bring are fussy little quilts with scalloped borders; hand-embroidered pillows; prettily edged receiving blankets; tiny, adorable shoes; plush kittens and puppies; miniature, monogrammed silver cups; gift certificates and savings bonds. Appropriate and thoughtful gifts, maybe even useful gifts, but not the gifts they would have bestowed in another age.
In another age, in another story, they would have bestowed such gifts as long life, good health, beauty, prosperity, wisdom, talent, love, happiness, security, virtue, courage, faith.
You recognize this other story, don't you? The one in which the fairy godmother who's not been invited to the feast so burns with revenge at being spurned (or merely forgotten) that she bestows a curse instead of a gift?
"In her sixteenth year, she'll prick her finger on a spindle and die." Most fortunately for the girl-child, the curse is ameliorated by a late-comer to the feast: "Not die, but fall into a sleep like death."
On the other hand, maybe that's an even worse curse: years of numbness and inactivity, years of merely passing time, years of waiting for rescue by a man.
But this is a different age and a different story. In this age, this story, no curse need be issued, even if there were an aunt or surrogate grandmother excluded from the feast. Because, in this story, the Women of a Certain Age recognize that every gift bestowed carries a curse in its very nature.
Give her beauty, and you also give her the unwanted attentions of sycophants and those who'd make of her merely an object to be admired, rather than a person to be known.
Give her love and you give her all its complications, as well: longing, disappointment, the loss of love, and the unmatched ability of those we love to cut us to the quick. Because they love us, they know what will hurt us most.
Security and prosperity? Then she'll feel guilty for having more than others do, or threatened because others want too much what she has, or torn because others ask and ask and ask for her to share, to donate, to give.
Courage? Then she'll be called upon to use it. Faith? Then she will doubt, because no person of true faith never doubts. Virtue? She will be tested. Talent? Much is asked of the one to whom much has been given.
And, worst of all, long life and good health will bestow upon her the grief and terrible loneliness of losing all those she loves who've not been so blessed. One by one, her contemporaries, her family will die, while she lives long and long and long.
Fussy quilts and adorable shoes are so much safer, so much happier gifts. Gifts over which the Women of a Certain Age can coo and smile, as they coo and smile over the child, who will most certainly be beautiful and virtuous, happy and secure, beloved and loving, without the wishes of these women.
But who will also most certainly know mourning, and suffering, and times of numbness like death, whether or not she's cursed.
