Mary Lou Lets It All Hang Out....

 The mail person rang the doorbell this morning and left a package on my welcome mat.  It's a book of poetry, "I Am Not Afraid," by my dear friend Mary Lou.  It's her first published book.  Mary Lou spent 5 years in college a long time ago (the last one on scholarship at Sarah Lawrence) and got a job as a secretary in NYC.  When she got sick, when the voices started, the doctors told her she had schizophrenia.

What with the various times spent in the hospital and the constant, powerful medication (which she takes religiously), she has not been able to concentrate enough to work--or even read much--for the past 20 or so years, maybe more.  She keeps busy doing whatever she can--in nursing homes, at St. Vincent's (before they closed it---boo!), visiting old people, holding their hands, sharing her friendly smile, generous with her spirit, which is pretty much all she has in this world. (Though goddess knows, this is more than enough!)  I met her after Mass one Sunday at St. Peter's in Chelsea, and we've been friends ever since.  In her nonjudgmental way, she's listened to me figure my path through various minor hells, and she loves pancakes as much as I do.  I forget the name of the place (remembered it--the Silver Spurs in Soho or the Village) where we always go for pancakes when I'm in NYC, but she knows the way.  She doesn't care that I am deaf.  She's wiser than almost anyone else I know.

All the while, whenever she can, she continues to write poems.  A friend helped her gather them and create the book.  It's a great treasure! 

Her poetry is fearless and sad and funny. Like this one:

You like tomatoes
Fresh from your garden
Cut up on your plate
With steak cooked
On the grill
In your backyard.
You have an ex-partner
Still living with you
Even though you broke up
Four years ago.
The house is occupied territory.
No wonder you are
In the backyard.

Or this one:

I may not write at all anymore.
I may just spend my time
Looking for artichokes
At vegetable stands on First Avenue
And lying with you
On the floor in the living room
Which is also the kitchen
Talking and kissing and laughing.
There will be time enough to write
When we are too old
To sit on the sidewalk eating pizza.

Or this one:

Mother Dolorosa
Mother of Sorrows

I come to you
My pink flamingo

I wash my hands
In holy water

Will you lay me
In the tomb?

Will I rise again
Like pizza dough?

Mea culpa
Mea culpa