In September of 2006, I entered the blogosphere using the tragicomic voice of a character I call my “curmudgeonly alter-ego,” Walhydra. As is the case for all egos, Walhydra is convinced that she is the real me, the important me, in this case inconveniently reincarnated as a “sixty-something, gay, would-be writer.”

Post Street IIWalhydra came into being as a storytelling device in the mid-1990s, when I was invited to join the Crone Thread, a private listserv of mostly pagan, mostly women elders, folk who understand, revere and emulate the Crone.

The Crone is that feminine aspect of the Divine which, in the form of a human being past childbearing age, strives on behalf of the race to learn about and teach the terrors and blessings of mortality. She does this by facing them honestly, walking through them with eyes open, breathing deeply, and returning to tell the tale.

In the latter years of the blog, as I shepherded my own mother toward her death, it became more difficult to write with Walhydra’s voice. As she herself said at one point, “How can I writing nothing but sarcastic humor when real life is shutting me down with grief and depression? It isn’t funny!”

I’ve made several attempts to revisit Walhydra’s Porch since Mom’s death—and the death of my father two Januarys later. I love that grouchy old lady. So far, though, silence.

For the sake of continuity, therefore, I’m copying here the archival links which, on that other blog, I call Mileposts.

These are selected posts in reverse chronological order, going back to September 2006, which trace key themes and events in Walhydra’s story.

Autobiographical storytelling is, of course, an ongoing exercise in self-reinvention. These stories are somewhat like a recurring dream which evolves over the years.

And so it is.

Blessèd Be,

Note: There is a second blog which I call Walhydra’s Back Porch: Stuff Walhydra Can’t Throw Away. As the About page for the Back Porch explains:

“You know how it is with odds & ends of stuff you collect over the years. You can’t get rid of it, but you don’t really want it in the house or out on the front porch where everyone can see it.

“It’s not stuff you’re particularly embarrassed about. Simply stuff you only share with friends who will get the joke and not be annoyed with how tacky or worn out or off color it is.

“Read at your own risk.”