Mary, Mary - Quite Contrary

When I find myself in times of trouble,

Mother Mary comes to me.

 

With that opening line, Paul McCartney includes his own mother, and the virgin mother of God, in his dream of Letting the Beatles Be.  It is a convenient and coincidental construction that I share because there are so many women of consequence in my life named Mary.  Being Irish Catholic does not help but I chalk it up to quantum convergence and entanglement where are all one energy and there are no coincidences.  Things happen for reason because we all share the same time and space, gravity and light and we affect each other significantly in ways we cannot know.  Like when you dream or think about an old friend and then run into them on the street the next day.  Déjà vu, kismet or happenstance?   I think not.

First there is my younger sister Mary K who despite a love/hate sibling rivalry when we were young, has become my greatest partner and confidant, mentor and supporter.  We are hatched from the same egg or cut from the same stone and we understand each other intrinsically.  There is nothing like sister to keep you honest, respectful and reverent to all women.

The next Mary bug did not hit me until high school despite all my grammar teachers being called Sister Mary Winifred or Fillippa with veins in their eyes and hair on their teeth. All the gals in grammar school were named Patty; light and breezy, strong and sexy, silent and sultry as only Irish Catholic girls could be at 13. 

High school began with Mary E. as my best friend without benefits.  Shy but sassy, she has always bridged the gap between sister and companion.  Soon came Mary A. who was my first true love.  Long and lean and quite savvy in between, she was a soulmate but we prematurely broke up because we didn’t think we were good enough for each other and too young for commitment. We still keep in touch.

So, I left childish ways behind for college at Our Lady of the Lakes, with the golden virgin Mary presiding over campus chastity like a beacon from heaven. There I found Mary B. who was a classic, brainy, blue eyed, buxom-blonde-beauty who loved all my handsome friends, but not me.  That was OK because we spent endless hours conversing and cavorting around campus and she lives around the block still and I get to see her weekly.  That kind of continuity is hard to have and harder to hold but the connection is unrelenting.  My I like her hubby, wife loves her and she is a good egg. 

        In between there was; Mary Be, the Deans darling daughter who I took for coffee but not for granted and Mary Br who was the most interesting school sex symbol I ever chased, unsuccessfully, I might add, but who I still dream about today.  Then there were the lesser; Mary Bg who was a middle-class model at work with tight tee-shirts and crossed eyes, Mary Bh who unfortunately was the hoops star’s girlfriend, and Mary W. who was a mere psycho-physical fascination.  All reduced to stereotypical shorthand by my poor self-awareness and esteem, imagery and memory.

        Finally, I broke loose of the parochial bonds of nomenclature and discovered the world of Arlenes and Donnas, Pegs and Tracey Maries, among a random scattering of influential and intriguing Mary Vs and Bs thrown in tween just for fun.  What is in a name, but a freaky fascination and foundational firmness.  Was I attracted to this name or did it blur my individuality, anchoring or limiting me?   It is nothing I can shake or forget but it has served me well, allowing my Garden to Grow and Let it Be.