The workers' saint

"St Joseph was a just man, a tireless worker, the upright guardian of those entrusted to his care. May he always guard, protect and enlighten families."

(Pope John Paul II)

The celebration of the first day of May has ancient origins. There's an obvious relationship with the Celtic pagan festival of Beltane and also with the Germanic celebration of Walpurgis Night. Although I'm sill unsure how or why the humble St Walpurga, an English missionary who helped to convert pagan Germany in the eighth century, has lent her name to a witches' sabbath. As the western world became Christianised, many popular secular holidays merged with Christian feasts. Through the 20th and 21st centuries, neo-pagans have resurrected and restructured many of the old traditions, including May Day festivities. 
As a secular celebration, "May Day" may be best known for maypole dancing and the crowning of the May queen. In pre-Christian Europe, the first day of May was also seen to be the first day of summer, in relation to the midsummer solstice in the second half of June. The Romans celebrated the feast of the goddess Flora at this time, the aptly named queen of flowers and plants. The Roman Catholic Church observes May as the month of the Virgin Mary; with statues of Mary often being adorned with crowns and wreaths of flowers.
May Day has had a tradition of community based festivities across the British Isles down the centuries. Towns and villages celebrated the fertility of the soil and the livestock. Seeding and sowing had usually been completed by this time of year and it would be convenient to allow farm workers and labourers a holiday. For some, May Day gained infamous "communist" associations. As the Catholic calendar was reformed, Pope Pius XII instituted the feast of St Joseph The Worker in 1955. Yet the the saint's patronage of workers and grafters has an older history.
Everything we know about Joseph originates from scripture. We know he was a working man and of limited means. Yet the gospels highlight his lineage from David, the king of Israel. I have a fondness for Joseph because he was very much an ordinary Joe, yet he displayed immense compassion and faith when he realised that his young bride to-be was already with child; supernaturally conceived at that. He initially considered ending their betrothal but feared for Mary's safety if she was shamed as an adulteress.
Clearly, Joseph loved Mary and would also love Jesus as his own, leaving his home and family to protect the child. The gospels note that the people of Nazareth referred to the boy Jesus as "the son of Joseph" without other distinction. Fittingly, Joseph is the patron saint of fathers; also of the Universal Church, of the dying, of social justice, and of course of carpenters.
The Christian Church has always been proud to emphasise Jesus' background as the step-son of a carpenter, probably apprenticed by Joseph himself. The humanity and humility of Jesus through Joseph's guardianship are evident; also the fulfillment and often sheer drudgery that can be part of vocation. Like his father on earth and in heaven, Jesus was a creator. I've always found it poignant that the carpenter's boy would ultimately bear his own wooden cross to be nailed to the Roman tree of execution.
I'm no carpenter, but I've loved working with discarded bits of wood or cut-offs to distress and tart up into driftwood-style shelves, frames and bits and pieces. I'm most fond of my "carpenter's crucifix". I think folk thought I'd finally lost it when I said I wanted to make the corpus out of nails and upholstery tacks, with a crown made of picture wire. A couple of years ago, if anyone had told me I would be thinking of making a crucifix at all, I'd have thought they'd gone large on the altar wine. But it seems to suit the little house; fashioned more from love than skill, as many precious things are.

(Photo: Gigi, album)

Located a well judged stone's throw away from me is the tall, Gothic Catholic church of St Joseph, at the foot of Elm Grove and just off the Lewes Road. Both roads have long been densely populated: they're areas frequented by locals rather than tourists. In the heart of uni-campus land, much of the Victorian housing is rented out. 

In the 1860s, a Mission Chapel stood on the site now occupied by St Joseph's. The current church is a Grade II listed building. However, due to outstanding debts, the church wasn't dedicated until 8th May 1979; a few days after the feast of St Joseph the Worker and a hundred years to the day since building work began.
The Lewes Road and surrounding areas are necessarily entrepreneurial and hand-to-mouth communities. Home to the local branch of The Society of St Vincent de Paul, the church is just a short wander away from one of the SVP's charity shops; traditionally sited in deprived areas. The Brighton shop is as well used as it is well stocked. St Joseph's today serves an increasingly multi-cultural congregation of local workers; those with jobs and those without.

www.stjosephsbrighton.co.uk

"If I Had a Hammer" The Seekers (version)

"In Joseph, faith is not separated from action."

(Pope Benedict XVI)

Lights and signs

"Look at how a single candle can both defy and define the darkness." 

(Anne Frank) 

"How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world." 

(William Shakespeare) 

Yesterday was the beautiful, melancholic Christian feast of Candlemas, recalling when Mary was purified and blessed after childbirth, so that she could return to the Temple and present her baby Jesus there for the first time. When Mary and Joseph arrived at the Temple, one of the elders, Simeon, held the baby up spoke of him as the Messiah, "the light". The obvious significance of the feast of candles is that Christ is forever the Light of the World. As well as the church candles being blessed at Candlemas, when I was at school, people brought their own candles to church for blessing; I'm not sure how often this happens these days. Sometimes we all need a little help re-igniting or nurturing that spark of hope or love, to keep it burning through all weathers.
Before the birth of Christ, the pagan Celtic festival of "Imbolc" was celebrated at this time. Imbolc began at sunset on 1st February, itself the celebration of the pagan goddess Brighid, which would eventually become the Christian feast of St Brigid. "Imbolc" translates as "in the belly", referring to a time of renewal and the promise of abundance from the earth goddess. Imbolc marked the halfway point between the darkness of the Winter Solstice in December and the new light of the Spring Equinox in March. Fire played a huge part in the pagan festival; as well as being purifying, it signified the increasing power of the sun as the days lengthened. Christians began celebrating Candlemas as early as the fourth century. It's a bittersweet celebration; looking back to the recent joy and gift wrapping of Christmas, drawing breath before the penitential self denial of Lent. 

According to folklore, around Candlemas, snowdrops,"Winter's Bells", start blooming and the badger emerges, both heralding the beginning of the end of the cold weather. Sometimes frowned upon by the part of me that's trying to be a proper Catholic, the Irish in me is delighted by "signs". The first snowdrops in my garden are already pushing through the stones and slushy aftermath of winter. I told a friend a couple of days ago that I'd seen a badger snuffling around the undeveloped land at the back of my house; I thought I saw one late last year as well. He wasn't convinced, but yesterday I learned from one of our very own local elders that we have a large, established badger colony in Brighton. I live very close to a convergence of cemeteries and burial grounds: the old boy confirmed that these gruff critters grunt around the grounds at night, probably fueling Brighton's many urban ghost stories. (Personally, inspite of my proximity to the cemeteries, I would be more worried that anything shuffling about in the dark behind my house was an inept burglar: I don't believe the dead can hurt you, much as the living might try). A little digging on t'internet when I got home unearthed (sorry) a short film that Alan Titchmarsh made a couple of years ago, describing Brighton's badgers as "some of the city's oldest inhabitants". I have a feeling that my badger will turn his snout up at my veggie curries and felafel balls, but I'll be watching out for him.
Whether we admit to being superstitious or not, I'd hazard that we all look for signs from time to time: signs that we're doing the right thing, going the right way; signs that we're loved, that our lives have any meaning. Some signs are far more subtle than the obvious neon, flashing or dayglo varieties. I believe we each have our own light to shine; often an illuminating sign to ourselves and others, frequently taken for granted. When you watch children at play, no scenario seems impossible to them; they sparkle because they can and because nobody has yet told them they shouldn't. When we allow our own light to show, we unconsciously give that sign to others to do the same. Not all of us are electrifying: some of us are more like twinkling candles, but one tea-light can set dozens of candelabras blazing. Obviously, I believe that spark is God-given. We should never let anyone try to extinguish our own light: sometimes we feel relegated to the shadows, but the smallest glimmer can guide or define us in the gloom.
During the past week, we've had severe problems with electrical power in my street.: there are now two large holes on opposite sides of a very small road and a very noisy mobile generator appeared to be running the show until Friday. I'm a real sucker for candlelight and have sconces and tea-lights a go-go. I'm largely unphased by the lights going out, although less keen on the prospect of stone cold water and an uncharged laptop. To be honest, part of me (probably that Irish bit again) is a little disappointed that the street wasn't a flickering little settlement of candlelit windows this Candlemas. I decided to refrain from hitting the light switch yesterday afternoon to watch the opening matches of the Six Nations Rugby. Anyone glancing through my front window would've caught me cussing at the referee by candlelight, with the added incentive of the heady scent of ginger and sandalwood. We take electricity for granted on a daily basis, until we're forced to rely on a more basic source of power again and rediscover our childhood wonder for the flame.

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."

(Plato)

"Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared."

(Buddhist proverb)

"Simple Gifts"  Alison Krauss (with cellist Yo-yo Ma)

"He who laughs, lasts." (Mary Pettibone Poole)

"Laugh as much as possible, always laugh. It's the sweetest thing one can do for oneself & one's fellow human beings."

(Maya Angelou) 

"There's hope for the future because God has a sense of humour and we are funny to God."

(Bill Cosby)

 

"Music is the great mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life."

(Ludwig van Beethoven)

One of the truly great things about growing up in and around south London was (and hopefully still is) the richness and exuberance of Pentecostal and Baptist churches in the region, reflecting just how colourful and joyful faith can be for people of all ages and cultures. Happy to be a Catholic, I've also been happy to feel good in others' places of worship; I've always loved Gospel music. A few years ago, a friend in Lewisham introduced me to the sound of urban Gospel duo "Mary Mary", actually two Afro-American sisters from California called Erica and Tina Atkins. They took their stage name from the Virgin Mary and from St Mary Magdalen, some pretty hefty inspiration! They make vibrant, contemporary music which is lyrically uplifting and also gets you off your knees and onto your feet.

"Shackles (Praise You)"  Mary Mary

"Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance"

Maiden born and made

"All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 

Of mother's love with maiden purity" 

(from "The Virgin", William Wordsworth)

On 8th December, Christians respect the Solemnity of The Immaculate Conception; one misconception non-Christians may have of this feast day is that it's the celebration of the virgin conception of Christ. The feast is actually a recognition that Mary the Mother of God was born to St Anne in a state of grace, conceived and preserved from original sin: William Wordsworth beautifully depicted Mary as: "Our tainted nature's solitary boast".
While there is no suggestion in scripture that Mary was conceived in anything other than the usual manner, Anne herself is generally described as being childless until her later years: indeed she is Jesus' grandmother. Somewhat overlooked in Christian mythology, Anne, (from the Hebrew "Hannah", meaning "grace"), is also revered in Islam and mentioned in the Qu'ran as Mary's mother and a highly spiritual woman. Islamic legend holds that she prayed for a son after watching a bird nurturing her young. Against all odds, she conceived, bearing a daughter who would be blessed among women; and who would bear and nurture the Son of Man.
The patron saint of housewives and unmarried women: I like St Anne! (She's also the patron saint of grandmothers and women in labour; and, rather more randomly, of cabinet makers and miners...)

"The Immaculate Conception"

A dew-drop of the darkness born,

Wherein no shadow lies;

The blossom of a barren thorn,

Whereof no petal dies;

A rainbow beauty passion-free,

Wherewith was veiled divinity.

(John Banister Tabb)

"The Holly and the Ivy"  Annie Lennox

The things my mother told me...

"May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

May the clarity of light be yours,

May the fluency of the ocean be yours,

May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow 

Wind work these words 

Of love around you, 

An invisible cloak 

To mind your life."

(From "Beannacht - For Josie", by John O'Donohue)

Josie Kelly: Gigi, family album

The late, lovely poet John O'Donohue wrote "Beannacht", which is Gaelic for "Blessing", for his own mother Josie during her lifetime. When I was putting together a wake for my Mum, Josie Kelly, I had a friend read the poem out in it's entirety; although the words reproduced above have always touched me most deeply. My Mum and Dad are now the invisible cloak that minds my life.
This Wednesday marked the second anniversary of my mother's death: she died on the morning of  10.10.2010. Although time appears to have flown by, I still seem to be slow at navigating the yawning void that has opened up in the very middle of my life. Until I moved to Brighton, I saw Mum everyday; once I had moved, I spoke to her everyday. I realise that losing my job around the same time that I lost my mother could only ever isolate me further: living on my own, I also find myself yearning for the camaraderie of my old colleagues. But more than anything, I can't deny that I miss my mum. 
Mum was one of a family of six children: the eldest was a step-sister who would quickly emigrate to Australia, the youngest was her only brother William; Josie was the youngest of the four sisters in between. With varying shades of strawberry blonde hair and Irish blue eyes, they were feisty and pretty and were known as The Kelly Girls around Antrim and Derry. My Auntie Barbara told me that when they were growing up Mum was generally stubborn and often cantankerous but always cute. Her enchantment of my father is recounted elsewhere in this blog; for her part, Mum appeared to have countless suitors but maintained she had only loved once. Living in my father's native Belgium and then Switzerland and France during the first fifteen years of their marriage, she loved the French culture and language, but she learned to speak French her way, with an unshakable Northern Irish accent. Mum was eternally Irish. She would cheerfully say she was born in "the Black North", but being born just before the partitioning of the Irish counties, she refused to recognise the divide, with an indignity I uphold. Her Irishness seems to have been as infectious for my Dad: he surely had a greater knowledge of Irish political history and a more prolific collection of Irish folk and rebel songs than your average, conservatively raised Walloon. And so the Sundays of my childhood resonated with Gregorian chant, Edith Piaf, The Dubliners and various versions of "Kevin Barry" and "The Fields of Athenry".
Mum was always a bit of a conundrum. Just as she was a resolute vegetarian who didn't care for many vegetables, she was also a confirmed Catholic who believed in fairies, omens and ghosts. Superstition and ritual featured large in her Catholic upbringing. Her own beloved Scottish mother, who I never knew, was a devout woman who could apparently"see" the fate of others; the local parish priest often asked for advice and assured my granny that she was thus "gifted" because she was close to God. Mum would often mutter prayers in front of the red-lit picture of The Scared Heart (above the fridge), asking The Virgin Mary, St Rita or St Anthony to fix or find things, to keep people safe or show them the error of their ways.
When my Dad died suddenly and my big sister left to travel across the world with the man she would marry, I feel I formed an enviable bond with Mum. At times, certainly in later years, I admit that I could feel smothered and stuck. The memory of that resentment is painful for me now: sometimes contrarily argumentative and startlingly devoid of tact, Mum loved my sister and I unconditionally and fiercely. She could be generous to a fault: some folk could pop in for a cuppa and still be there through lunch and dinner, and maybe even a drop of whiskey to set them back en route. At other times, she might resolutely refuse to open the door to neighbours or friends if she was having a bad hair or even a "bad house" day. She could be endlessly kind but brutally honest, frequently advising other people's daughters in shop changing rooms that a skirt or dress made them look fat, thin, peaky or just plain dreadful!
She could appear judgemental, largely due to the narrowness of her geography and religion. Yet I remember her instinctive reaction when she came to visit a man I had been helping to care for, in his last, painful stages of AIDS. His condition and homosexuality had blinded his own Portuguese Catholic family; when Mum asked him where his mother was, he started to cry. Always phobic about hospitals and terrified by the media's HIV and AIDS fever, my own Mum held Paolo's hand and told him she would be his mother that afternoon. I've never forgotten that; it helps me remember how I came to be me.
She had an unspoken fearlessness about her, which must have been attractive to my just and outspoken father. Once settled in south London, she rarely felt the need to travel across the Thames; yet she traveled to Australia and the Far East with my sister when she was well into her seventies and dependent on a walking stick. When I was younger, she would sometimes come along to reggae and punk gigs; she could often be heard offering young men with towering Mohican hairdos cough sweets and tissues. She became a big fan of singer and gay rights activist Tom Robinson, who referred to her as "Mum" on more than one occasion.
When I was arranging Mum's wake, I wrote the poem "Josie Kelly", which tumbled out in a rush of recognition of all that's Mum that I now see in me. I wanted to share it here, along with some of the (very many) things she would often tell me. She shared some of my taste in music, if not the full diversity which I inherited from Dad. She never tired of traditional Celtic music, including the pipes and the marching bands of the Orangemen, but I managed to introduce her to the likes of Springsteen, Van Morrison, Kings of Leon, Eddi Reader, Brian Kennedy, Damien Rice... I literally introduced her to Norn Ireland's own Snow Patrol, which is a whole other story. She grew to be especially fond of the band; her favourite Snow Patrol song, which reminded her of The Troubles, is included here. Mum felt that frontman Gary Lightbody would have made a fine Catholic priest, which would certainly be news to his lovely Protestant family back in Bangor. Mum frequently asserted that various people would've made fine Catholic priests. Apart from Blessed Pope John Paul: she thought he was wonderful of course, but felt he would've made a great rock star.
And people wonder where I get it from.

Things My Mother Told Me

Never let the sun set on an argument.

Never take your health for granted.

What's meant for you will surely not go past you.

That her marriage to my Dad was made in Heaven; or at the very least, the wedding license was filed there.

That I would never have much money, but that needn't mean I would ever be poor.

Money puts a price on happiness but still can't buy it.

Always accept an apology. It makes it easier to offer one.

God does indeed move in mysterious ways: why wouldn't He; He's God?

Irish people know how to laugh at themselves, which has encouraged the English to make Irish jokes because they haven't yet learned to laugh at themselves.

If you believe you're right, stand up and fight for your opinion, until you're knocked down; then, sit down and carry on shouting.

Men who mock women for being virgins, or chaste or celibate, are not fit for love-making.

You should marry for love and work for money, not the other way round.

That her lack of culinary skills hadn't affected her raising a family: she simply married a man who loved cooking and had one daughter who loved the preparing and eating of food and another who liked to eat out.

You can wear tartan with floral, polka dots with stripes; as long as none of it is wearing you.

You can paint your face but not a smile on it.

Real class has nothing to do with where you are on any social scale.

That talking to my plants would help me as much as them.

Irish people are born to laugh and cry; sometimes, both at the same time.

That I should've married Bruce Springsteen.

Always keep a clean house: you don't want burglars thinking you're slovenly.

Always wear good underwear, in case you get knocked down or have to climb up something.

That I had her mother's gift of "knowing" things for others but would always be shortsighted about my own life.

Anyone with a semblance of decency surely has an Irish or Scottish grandmother tucked away somewhere.

Don't worry if people talk about you: at least you've been noticed.

That all the Christian denominations quite like the idea of being Catholic.

That I would grow more like her and my Dad as I grow older; that it would become my greatest comfort.

That she would die on a Sunday morning.

That I would miss her every day of my life.

"Josie Kelly"

Where have you gone Mum?

Not at the end of the 'phone,

nor waiting in my sister's car 

or scowling in the hated chair. 

My mirror reflects a pale ache of you, 

but you are there at the corners of my mouth, 

stretching my shy smile to a farm-girl grin. 

You are in the cussedness of my fringe, 

in my eagerness to laugh and in the easiness of my tears. 

You are in the rising of my temper and the dropping

of all wrongs before bedtime. 

You are in the tapping of my feet, 

from Springsteen to Sean South of Garryowen. 

You are in my green fingers, 

my need to nurture seeds and pips, twigs and stones. 

You are the way of grace in me, 

and in my knack for falling off kerbs while standing still 

and eyeing up a mountain. 

You are in my constant boiling of the kettle, my cake kept for strangers,

my sweeping of the stairs for critical burglars. 

You are in my lust for red shoes and handbags, 

in the miraculous medals in my purse; 

in my calling on the saints 

for lost rings, people and battles. 

You are in my recollections of an Ireland I never knew; 

you are in my love for my father and his faith,

and for your own mother's telling of the unknown. 

You are the gossamer that binds me and my sister 

beyond all differences of time, place or opinion.

You and my father are in my veins like whiskey and syrup: 

more than any DNA, 

you are at the core of me.

You are the skip in the heartbeat of all those who may come to love me; 

and you are in the echo of me, 

as I am in your footsteps. 

Where have you gone Mum? 

Wherever I am going. 

                                                                                                                                              Gigi

"The Fields of Athenry"  Brian Kennedy



"Open Your Eyes"  Snow Patrol

Mary's Queenship, from the children of Eve

"Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy!
Our life, our sweetness, and our hope!
To thee do we cry, poor banished
children of Eve, to thee do we send
up our sighs, mourning and weeping
in this valley, of tears.
Turn, then, most gracious advocate,
thine eyes of mercy toward us; and
after this our exile show unto us the
blessed fruit of thy womb Jesus;
O clement, O loving, O sweet virgin Mary.
Pray for us, O holy Mother of God:
That we may be made worthy of the
promises of Christ."
("Hail, Holy Queen", traditional prayer of the Rosary)

In 1954, Pope Pius XII established 22nd August as the feast day for The Queenship of Mary: the date was seen as a logical "follow-up" to the feast of The Assumption".
In his encyclical  "To the Queen of Heaven", Pius XII confirms that Mary deserves the title not only as Mother of God, but because she is perceived as the redemptive Eve, with unique intercessory powers.
Mary's Queenship is steeped in Scripture, with reference to her matriarchal glory made at both The Annunciation and The Visitation. In the fourth century, St Ephrem called Mary both "Lady" and "Queen". Subsequent Marian hymns continue these titles: "Hail, Holy Queen", "Hail, Queen of Heaven". 
The "Salve Regina", ("Hail, Holy Queen"), was composed in the Middle Ages, therefore originally in Latin, by German Monk Hermann of Reichenau. There have been many subsequent translations and "Hail, Holy Queen" is also the closing prayer of the Rosary: it's said at prayers at each meeting of The Catholic Women's League. Wonderfully moving when traditionally sung as Gregorian chant, "Hail, Holy Queen" also lends itself to really jubilant renditions: the attached video is from the film "Sister Act"; maybe not quite what you were expecting in honour of the feast of Mary's Queenship, but I think it's a delight.. Also, I just love to see nuns clapping and singing their hearts out.

"Hail, Holy Queen"  from "Sister Act"

There's something about Mary: The Feast of The Assumption

"Mary is the safest, easiest, shortest and most perfect way of approaching Jesus"

(St Louis Marie de Montfort)

"Who Is She Ascends So High?"
(from the Roman Catholic Breviary)
Who is she ascends so high,
Next the heav'nly King,
Round about whom angels fly,
And her praises sing?
Who is she adorned with light;
Makes the sun her robe?
At whose feet the queen of night
Lays her changing globe?
This is she in whose pure womb
Heaven's Prince remained;
Wherefore in no earthly tomb
Could she be contained.
Heav'n she was, which held that fire,
Whence the world took light,
And to heav'n doth now as pire:
Flames with flames unite.
She that did so clearly shine,
Our day once begun,
See how bright her beams decline,
Sitting with the Sun.

As a convent schoolgirl, I grew up with a fascination for the traditional Catholic devotion to Mary, the Virgin Mother of God. As a "Child of Mary", I joined with other bustling little girls to decorate the chapel with flowers during the month of May, all of us proudly wearing our blue sashes. I still have my little rosary from my First Communion; the cheapest, mass-produced plastic, but sugar-pink and precious. Family holidays to my Dad's homeland would always incorporate a trip to Our Lady's shrine at Banneux: I can still picture the rows of souvenir Blessed Virgins; a regiment of serenity with celestial blue cloaks and rose-cheeked inclined heads. These days, I belong to the Catholic Women's League, where each meeting starts with The Rosary. I now have a frieze of The Black Madonna in my living room: I managed to paint the alcoves there almost the exact same shade as her vivid red cloak; I only wish I had found my blue sash before the family home had to be sold...

Why do we so love Mary?

Yesterday, 15th August, was the feast of The Assumption, celebrated across the Christian churches; a Holy Day of Obligation and also a public holiday in Austria, Belgium, France, Greece, Italy, Malta, Spain and many other countries. The word "assumption" is literally from the Latin for "taken up": we celebrate that Mary was assumed into heaven, body and soul. Many Catholics do believe that Mary died physically before she ascended to heaven, but this aspect of The Assumption is not fully defined in the theology of the Catholic Church. It's a beautiful and joyous feast: Mary's Assumption is seen as a divine gift to her as the mother of Jesus; but also serves as a reminder of the saving grace that awaits us all.

Christian "Mariology" (the study and theology of Mary), explores not only her life but also the veneration of her in our own daily lives. The Virgin Mary has been a divine muse for artists, musicians, composers of hymns, sculptors and architects throughout ancient and modern Christianity. Non-Catholics have often accused the Roman Church of "loving Mary too much": deifying her in fact. However, now that I'm no longer the awestruck child with an armful of unruly roses, I appreciate that most Catholics feel a strong personal relationship to Mary because of her essential humanity; she is effectively, mother to all. As a woman, I also feel that Mary is Eve redeemed; femininity and loveliness without treachery, artifice or blemish.
We feel that Mary is our intercessor, "Our Lady": when something seems too trivial to place directly before God, Mary is there to support us through our trials and irritations and small but poignant hurts. Just as a child might run to a mother for comfort with a grazed knee, we feel Mary is accessible in this way. The emphasis is actually on her being fully human rather than any notion of deity. She is a figure of warm hope, sympathy and compassion.

Mary's selflessness and compassion as a human being are seen as ultimate. She acceded to God's wishes; a bewildered and guileless young girl, at a time when being an unmarried mother could have catastrophic consequences. Later, this very real mother would willingly sacrifice her child for the fulfilment of the scriptures and, therefore, our own. In a very practical sense, Mary supports the role of women in what is all too often viewed as a patriarchal "firm". Although Mary obeyed the word of God without question, I've never thought of her as subservient. She may be a vessel without sin, but she is far from empty: "full of grace", she is the embodiment of God's love at work in us, she gives birth to Christianity and Catholicism. Far from dismissing her as a meek, blindly following virgin, I rather believe she was only too aware of the enormity of what was before her and what would come after. Her selflessness actually required courage and resolve: this combined with her immense tenderness makes her uniquely powerful and important within our faith.

The Catholic priest, Trappist monk and poet Thomas Merton wrote many devotional Marian poems, although he felt that her greatest glory was her "nothingness": I love that he compares her freedom from all egotism to the purest glass of the cleanest window, but I've always felt that Mary the woman and mother had a great deal of substance to her! I believe that our devotion to Our Lady is flamed by her innate preciousness, which she carried with utter humility: this is what makes her complete. Sadly, I don't have a daughter: if I did, I would be thrilled to see her set aside her magazines of teetering, collagen-tampered WAGS and wannabes to don a blue sash for a real Lady.

"Mare Mia"  Diana Navarro

"Because my will is as simple as a window

And knows no pride of original birth,

It is my life to die, like glass, by light:

Slain in the strong rays of the bridegroom sun."

("The Blessed Virgin Mary Compared to a Window"  Thomas Merton)

This Woman's Work: The Visitation

"My soul doth magnify the Lord : and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.

For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden"

(The Magnificat,  from The Book of Common Prayer)

Last Thursday was the Feast of The Visitation, when young Mary carrying Christ in her womb went to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who was known to be far beyond child-bearing years. The older woman was aware that she was already carrying her own blessed baby; a son who be known as John the Baptist and would prepare the way of the scriptures for Mary's son. When we were at school, we learned from Luke's gospel that Elizabeth greeted her cousin;"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb"; Mary responded with the beautiful prayer of the Magnificat.

I've been laid low with a chest infection for a couple of weeks now, but I wanted to share, somewhat belatedly, a lovely latter-day sonnet about this meeting between the women, written by the poet, musician and Anglican priest Malcolm Guite. Simply called  "The Visitation", I think it captures the wonder and devoted acceptance of both women and something of their intuitive love and strength. Mary would have been a virgin of about fourteen or fifteen; today, a gymslip mum. There are so many depictions in Marian art highlighting her ethereal beauty and grace, but I always feel those that show her guilelessness and girlishness are incredibly moving. Beyond the sheer enormity of becoming the vessel of God, she would face the gossip and disbelief of friends and strangers alike and would need to trust herself to the care of her betrothed Joseph: he in turn would need all his devotion to defend her honour and faithfulness. Today, Joseph would be pitied on the odious Jeremy Kyle Show. And it's often forgotten that Mary was a child herself, committed to giving birth in disadvantaged circumstances, at a time when death in labour was not exceptional.

Mary, Elizabeth and Joseph are part of a story of feminine strength and wisdom, the eternal parental bond and of unerring faithful love in all it's forms which still resonates. 

"The Visitation"

(Malcolm Guite)

Here is a meeting made of hidden joys

Of lightenings cloistered in a narrow place

From quiet hearts the sudden flame of praise

And in the womb the quickening kick of grace.

Two women on the very edge of things

Unnoticed and unknown to men of power

But in their flesh the hidden Spirit sings

And in their lives the buds of blessing flower.

And Mary stands with all we call ‘too young’,

Elizabeth with all called ‘past their prime’

They sing today for all the great unsung

Women who turned eternity to time

Favoured of heaven, outcast on the earth

Prophets who bring the best in us to birth.

"This Woman's Work"  Kate Bush