image by :mrMark:

This poem spilled out of me the other day. I'm sharing it here in case you're having a hard time keeping it all together. Take it as a reminder that we never know someone else's whole story. Nobody ever has it as together as we think they do. If you need permission to fall apart, give it to yourself and know that you are not alone.

Treasure This

Sometimes I wish I were more like Mary,

Who is said to have gathered the hard
Impossible things in her heart,
Like secret treasures,

And pondered them there.

Instead, I spill out everywhere,

All messy honesty and emotion. 

I gather and ponder plenty, 

But not quietly or

Beatifically or with any sense of

Holy decorum.

We think Mary was holy and pure, 

But maybe she was frightened and confused, 

Although to be fair, I suppose

Those things can all exist in tandem

One against another in her tiny beating heart.

I want to be like Mary,

Not a saint or mother,
But someone capable of holding her tongue
While holding the secret of the world in her

Innermost being.

I want this because I think Mary must
Have been long-suffering and brave;
How else do you harbor a heavenly fugitive

Without raising the alarm or
Demanding your due?

But I know, in my loud and messy heart,

That even this is an illusion, a ruse

Meant to lull me into silent complacency.
Pondering things quietly in your heart

Does not make you a better person,

Though some would say it would make me a better woman.

This is not the woman I want to be. 

The story tells of Mary who was quiet and pure

Only because she was a woman in a time –
Isn't it always the time? –
When quiet and pure were good.

I am not Mary. 

Even Mary was not the Mary we know.

We never knew Mary at all.