mornings with mary, the first time

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.

his tom sawyer persuasion enlisted me weekdays 

folding all that black and white. 

inverted wings,

compressing all those contradictions

in the tight circle of a rubber band.

those papers could F L Y from the open hand of

an older brother.

we played music and worked tirelessly each day after school,

but sundays, we stood beside each other

while it seemed the entire world was sleeping.

outside, with the occasional marauding cat and haloed street lights

it was a neighborhood transformed by stillness.

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

while only one step into the nocturnal world

wedded me firmly

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 with the soft feet of innocence. 

before the first birds began calling, before death came knocking,

or loss visited, and stayed too long.

before darkening hearts

 or crushing disappointments, self doubt, or reckless seasons arrived

like the inevitable slap of a morning paper.

past the cookie cutter neighborhood where every fifth house 

began the cycle of their monotonous tract all over again,

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 to my soul;

baskets of tendrils reaching down,

arms of trees

reaching up.

lush, dark shadows with secret blossoms

fragrance

possibilities

sudden beauty.

to a towheaded girl of eight,

EDEN.

i walked softly as a whisper towards the front door,

and that is when i saw her.

waiting in a tide of flowers

that rose in a perfect arch around her,

a stone statue of the virgin mary.

i cannot tell you why i felt so compelled in that moment

to drop to my knees,

but i did without forethought or hesitation.

the heavy gaping mouth of the canvas bag with all those folded papers

in front and behind me, cumbersome forgotten words

replaced by a current of love.

head bent. eyes closed. hands folded.

the light of mary flooded my heart

with pure belonging.

our religious upbringing; a thin perfunctory thread simply stitched 

at the end of each week,

never pierced my soul with such conviction.

i cannot tell you 

how long i perched like a small bird at dawn before her

nor can i recall what words comprised my prayers.

i can tell you

my heart was filled.

my soul 

lifted

to a place life had not yet taken me.

i rose softly and solemnly before her

just as the light of day

cracked open the ceiling of sky.

stepping backwards in awe and respect of her,

towards the streets of my youth

my eyes holy upon her eyes,

when suddenly

my heart froze catching the movement of one aging hand slowly

closing the curtain from the window above.

the innocence of 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 for such easy labor,

replaced with much heavier burdens to carry.

gone the songs of that distant summer,

gone too, our father;

all folded permanently into our hearts.

my mother has been a widow for more than a dozen years.

my brother, now the single father of two girls.

my grown son preparing to fly out into his ever expanding world,

my husband in the kitchen talking to our aging cat.

soon there will be breakfast,

as our clothes dry like so many prayer flags on the clothes line

above the landscape of our chosen and un-chosen lives.

my heart floods with memories of a childhood 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 every moment,

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 light.

 

 

mornings with mary

 

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Comments

[priti.lisa]

My very favorite story!
It's funny, I just went back to re-read this very post early this morning...by now, I am not surprised to see our minds on the same path, just delighted.
♥Love you♥

[Nonnie]

good morning, oh, lovely Rebecca, your words nourish my soul! I take your words and fold them into my heart

[Nonnie]

belated birthday greetings to you!

[gayle]

Hope you had a wonderful birthday!

[Carly]

Oh Rebecca! This writing is so deep, so beautiful , it gave me goose bumps! Thank you for sharing your memories with us. I hope I can post something later on tonight!
Brightest Blessings,
Carly

[gloria]

I too remember this beautiful story of the paper route. Love it! I didn't know it was your birthday. So Happy belated birthday to you and may you have many many more beautiful days. Your story reminded me of when my son David had a paper route and I helped him fold and just drove him by car with all the newspapers in back to each home. He always porched it because he wanted a tip.:) Thanks for the memories. Have a wonderful day.

[Maggie Grace]

Such stunning beautiful photos and lovely story. Thank you for giving me a place to share.

[Hettienne Grobler]

A belated birthday to you dear Rebecca! I remember this wonderful story - a numinous moment that will never fade!! a moment when she breaks through from the heavenly realms into our world. blessings for a wonderful week

[judie]

I was there with you the first time, and I was right back there again this time. Your story-tellng ability takes the reader by the hand and lets him/her walk right beside you, feel what you feel, hear what you hear, see through your eyes. Thank you for this moment.

[Fran aka Redondowriter]

Rebecca, you MUST gather all these entries into some kind of publication to share with the world. I have so many friends who don't want to use the Internet for more than e-mail or some Facebook following. The words and images that you share are universal. If I had to compare your writing with others I greatly admire it would be John O'Donohue or the poet Billy Collins. You have certainly enriched my day. I'm a few days late for Mornings With Mary, but I'll post in a little while. Thank you!

[Lenora]

Happy Birthday to you! My son has one this week too! Lovely. Sorry i can not make it to post but one Monday in 4, such is the frantic rhythm of my life these last may mos - today i had a peak to drink the words, the images, the kindnesses.. and i will make it at least once this month i promise! Peace!

[peggy gatto]

What a moving story, thank you , thank you!
My son recently told me of his new favorite place. It is in a church courtyard with a bench a a statue of Mary. He said he likes to go sit there.