Saint Rose of Berkeley (WC)

 

(Wendy Cabell, a previously written poem revisited December 31, 2020, feast day of Saint Melania the Younger; of Saint Zoticus, Cherisher of the Poor; and one of the feast days of the (above) Unfading Bloom Icon of the Mother of God.)

Saint Rose of Berkeley

      Isaiah 'twas foretold it, 

      The Rose I have in mind, 

      With Mary we behold it, 

      The virgin mother kind.

      -- from the traditional hymn

         Lo, how a rose e'er blooming,

         based on Isaiah 11:1

We don't always know their

names. Or where they're from. Or even 

if they're a Saint at all. But can't help believing

in Saint Rose of Berkeley.

Age 22, looking up from my tea, I spotted

her. Walking the sidewalk along the cafe

tables. Calm, no hurry. But no dawdling 

either. Purposeful, might say. And bearing

roses. Handing one to all the mothers, in the

fresh soft sun of that Mother's Day. But 

then felt one in my hand. Hand that so wanted

the rose. "How lovely! But I'm not a mother", 

said I. "Yes you are, it's ~inside~ you", said 

she. Such steady eyes, such sweetness. Wouldn't 

do for such hands to be empty. Of course they

came bearing roses. And then she was gone.

Always wondered at the backstory. Was 

this in memory of a child? Or her own

mother? Or simply to wake women up

to something inside them. Something invisibly 

real. Like the scent of roses. 

Scent of that day lingers,

though not over yet. That winter

a neighbouring town, bookshop. Those

little Hanukkah poems just glowed

on the shelf. One etched in, how

      Some say women are nothing. Well,

      maybe it's true. Nothing, like

      the dip in the pot. Nothing, like

      the hole in the flute. Nothing, like

      Shabbat in the week.*

Nothing-- 

hollowed,

hallowed.

And

now it's today.  Scripture reading is Genesis 2:2

of all things. Scouts honor. Truth really is

stranger than fiction. Reads:

      This one shall be called woman.**

Woman, female, one with a 

womb. Not just of body, of spirit. 

Was this what Saint Rose proclaimed, 

cupping the rose? Time will tell. But there's a 

bond in the carrying, shared breath, DNA. So

she's one who would know. Know far better than

Shakespeare she would, just whats in a Rose.***

*This Hanukkah poem is approximate here, as remembered, from a little homespun book of Hanukkah poems found that year in a now closed bookshop (Mama Bear's, Oakland, CA). Never have been able to find that lovely poem again, or its author. If anyone's in the know, would sure welcome hearing from you.

** Literally,  Genesis 2:23 was the day's reading when writing this part of poem. The verse feels clarified in 1 Corinthians 11:12,

          For as woman is made from man, 

          so man is now born of woman: 

          And all things are from God.

*** The rose, as Unfading Bloom, is an ancient emblem, which has been used both for Christ, and for the Blessed Virgin Mary, who bore Him.