This is one of those years where it’s striking me particularly hard that May is Mary’s month.
As busy, as crazy, as chaotic as it is, it’s Mary’s month.
As hare-brained as I am, as filled to the max with unfinished tasks, as sneezy and snoozled and snarky, it’s Mary’s month.
I feel completely unjustified in complaining about being busy in May: my kids aren’t that old, for one thing, and, besides that, I always seem to be busy. Add to that the fact that I’m not happy unless I’m maintaining a certain level of busy and May should be ideal.
In college, I always got my best GPAs during spring quarter, when trilocating was a fine art I had nearly mastered and the weather tried to beckon me away from studying. Now, many years removed from my own college experiences, I can’t help but feel energized at about the point when spring quarter (or “May-mester” as they call it now, my younger sister-in-law tells me) is in full swing.
The days are longer. They begin with a whoosh and a bang with splashes of orange and pink and purply-blue in the east. The world’s exploding with blooms and smells (and pollen counts, too).
May as Mary’s month is appropriate on so many levels. It’s busybusybusy. It’s beautiful. It’s the beginning of something unknown.
The resonance of the sweet and the sorrow mingling together, the feel of a breeze on my bare toes as my son plays in the dirt (and eats at least half of it), the wafting screeches of running children and balls banging on the driveway—it all mixes together in a way that I think makes Mary smile.
And maybe that’s what’s hitting me most this year about May as Mary’s month. She’s a mom. She gets it. She’s a wife. She understands. She’s a woman. She smiles.
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