the white wing of memory

my brother had the perfunctory paper route.

 easy task on weekday afternoons,

just nailing doormats with newspapers, 

and fleeing from the occasional dog

on an old Schwinn bike.

the white canvas bag hanging full,

front and back

with just a grinning preteen cruising an ever widening world

 oblivious to the weight of all those words.

slick tom sawyer persuasion enlisted me weekdays 

 to help fold all that black and white. 

inverted wings,

compressing all those contradictions

in a tight red band.

those words could F L Y

from the open hand of an older brother.

and what you might ask does a virgin in a bathtub

have to do with brothers and paper routes?

it's just the warm air slipping in the windows of summer

and somewhere in the distance there is music playing

and suddenly i am remembering.......

 folding over stuffed Sunday papers with my brother

while it seemed the entire world was sleeping.

outside of the occasional marauding cat and haloed street lights

it was a neighborhood transformed by stillness.

while my brother loathed the 4 a.m. wake up call,

one step into the nocturnal world

 firmly wedded me to the mystery of the moon and softening stars.

the thrill of tipping the scales of darkness into light.

where he saw the drudgery of weighty newspapers,

i came willingly for a chance to

 walk beneath the hem of the whitening sky.

 

i walked on the sure feet of innocence 

before the first birds began calling in the light.

before death came knocking.

loss visited. long before darkening

hearts or crushing disappointments, self doubt, or any of life's reckless seasons

that visit everyones doorsteps from time to time like the inevitable 

slap of a morning paper.

 

past the cookie cutter neighborhood where every fifth house 

began the cycle of monotonous tract houses all over again,

the stars were vanishing.

somewhere between the seen and unseen worlds,

that mystical portal that lasts but a few fleeting moments

i entered a courtyard.

the language of flowers were braille etching my soul.

baskets of tendrils reaching down,

arms of trees

reaching up.

lush, dark shadows with secret blossoms.

fragrance.

possibilities,

sudden beauty.

to a tow- headed girl of eight,

EDEN.

i walked softly as a whisper towards the door. 

that is when i saw her.

placed in a shower of flowers that rained in a perfect arch around her,

a stone statue of the virgin mary.

i cannot tell you why i felt so compelled to drop to my knees,

but i did without forethought or hesitation.

the cumbersome gaping mouth of the canvas bag with all those folded wings

in front and behind me

forgotten

words

replaced by prayer.

head bent. eyes closed. hands folded.

predictable childhood never flooded my heart

with such intensity.

our religious upbringing a thin perfunctory thread simply stitched 

at the end of the week,

never pierced my soul with such conviction.

i cannot tell you now

how long i perched on the earth before her

nor can i say what words

comprised my prayers.

i can tell you

my heart was flooded.

my soul 

lifted

to a place life had not yet taken me.

when i rose so softly and solemnly before her

just as the light of day cracked open the ceiling of the sky

i began to step backwards

towards the streets of my youth

my eyes on her eyes,

when suddenly

my heart froze to see one aging hand slowly

close the curtain from the window above.

i have never shared this with anyone,

but the innocent dawn, the promise of flowers,

the aging witness of those hands in the window.

the unseen eyes drinking in that moment

when mary captured the heart of

 a freckled newspaper girl.

 

the days of my brother needing me are long gone with the 

songs of that distant summer.

as is my father,

now 

folded permanently into my heart.

my mother has been a widow for a dozen years.

my brother is a father of girls.

my son is sleeping even as i write. my husband is in the kitchen talking to our cat.

soon there will be breakfast, as our clothes dry like so many prayer flags

above our chosen and unchosen lives.

as my heart floods with that predictable neighborhood,

 i could not leave fast enough for wilder ground.

yet even as i traveled the world, finally and forever settled down,

i am always looking for the sacred in the mundane.

the unexpected hidden in the ordinary.

a glimpse into the heart of mystery.

i rise early.

to find my place in the portal of those few fleeting moments

between the seen and unseen worlds.

to pull back the aging curtains of all that comprises  life

and wait for the return to innocence,

simply

wait for the arrival of the light.

Comments

[Ms. Moon]

If you came into my house you would see
So many Marys that you would wonder if I
Were Catholic but no
Not even close
But a worshipper of the Mother
Vessel of all Life
Blesser of all hearts
And she is on shelves and walls,
An altar in the hallway and
Around my neck (both in silver and gold, depending)
And you would feel at home
As I feel in your words
And in your pictures.
Thank-you for offering that other home for me
To worship in.

[Spadoman]

What a wonderful vibrant memory. I too was a paperboy. I lived in Chicago back then, (didn't leave for the wilds of the Northwoods until I was 25, and also never looked back). I saw the early mornings, heard the birds start their songs, saw the first light of day. (I have a prayer to thank Creator for that first light.)
I also love the Blessed Mother, especially Our Lady of Guadalupe, and have a collection of sorts.
As I travel, I take the small roads and drive through towns. I seek the Mary statues. I look for the ingenious ways of display, the bathtubs or small house-like grottos.
I was raised Catholic, but can't do organized religion in any form, yet, like you, revere Our Lady.
I'll be thinking of my paper routes all day. In fact, I'll write a story about them soon, I promise.
Thanks, and a peaceful day to you my friend.

Peace.

[Delphyne]

What a gorgeous story, Rebecca - very captivating and compelling. The Mother comes to all of us in different ways - I first remember her as a young girl, not in the Catholic church, but in a rose. My mind was troubled at such a young age and I was drawn to a beautiful rose and, there, I saw Her - and She told me that all would be well in life and not to worry. I believed Her without question - and still do.

(BTW - Comcast threw my email into limbo - long story. I cannot remember your email address and the link in your blog won't work for me as Safari mail is with the Delphyne email. My new and temporary one is Kathyrobles49 at comcast dot net. Would you send me an email so that I can add you, once again, to my address book? xoxo)

[Griselda Tello]

Ohh how moving, how very true it rings in my heart. I feel this way often in any shrine, but more so if it is The Virgen of Guadalupe and the small grotto's they make of The Virgen of Lourdes...I felt the same during my visit to Thailand, while entering the temples, I think it is the call of The Divine, the seeds of faith seem to bloom inside while we contemplate...I feel it even now as I read your story. Thanks for sharing it with us. Bright Blessings to your day.
Griselda

[cathy mckean]

this is such a powerful story - tears are streaming! thank-you