Mary, Mary

I used to say the Rosary every day. I said it every day for five years. I had one in the upstairs bathroom, a flashy faux-diamond and gold one. A "shine in the dark" plastic one on my bedside, my friend Mary's brother's was on the armchair, i'm sure there's one on the table and there's wood one (from the Father from the Phillipines who was here for the summer) on the hook on the back door. On my knees, alone, in front of the tabernacle; with a group in the afternoon light of a summer's day shining through green glass, dark swirls of colour before confession.

Rote sometimes makes sense out of time. Memory, repetition. focus - i need it. Those were difficult times and so it goes on.

I sometimes return to my mother's mantra but i am not disciplined any more.

I worked along the path of the beads, each bead, big, small, ten, one angel, two, St. Michael the Archangel, Mary's walk, Mary's journey, Mary's turn. Are we to be as she? Can you say, i can be her? Too high? Takes too long? I worked through each of the five sets of ten, past the climax of the crucifixtion and down sorrow's path with jubliation at the end and harmony at last. I was taking a spiritual bath. I sobbed through the beads, pleaded, whined. Sometimes defiant and flustered.

Mary, Mary quite contrary. Not really. You are a model of consistency, which i like. You were not a woman of extremes. Gentle, kind, faith. Mary, my mother, showing the way. I'm in touch with your pain. I have trouble feeling joy, though.

If i swallow hard and walk away, remembering, saying by rote, the message of that day that leaves nothing to chance but throws caution to the wind. I like Mary.