Riddle of the Many Marys

How can a mother,

a sister,

a companion,

bear the same name? This is not confusion.

This is code.

Not repetition, but resonance.

Mary was never a name.

It was a mantle.

A frequency worn, not given.

A path,

threaded through the body,

then buried

beneath careful edits.

In the lineage of Womb and Word,

to be called Mary

was to be known

as keeper of the flame,

as vessel of the Mother,

as Sophia

remembering herself in flesh.

No decree marked it.

No scroll confirmed it.

It was recognized in presence.

One Mary

would know another

not by sound

but by the way she held the field.

It passed

in silence,

in gaze,

in the space between words.

To write it plainly

would risk its unraveling.

So it was folded inward.

Into story.

Into symbol.

Into the quiet mystery

of the many Marys

standing beneath the cross.

And I see you, Mary-

tending thresholds,

midwifing souls

into life,

through death,

into truth.

I see you-

carrying the myrrh,

not only for burial

but for anointing every moment

that asks to be transformed.

You are there, Mary-

speaking not to be seen,

but because truth refuses silence.

Walking with the wounded,

not to rescue,

but to witness without turning away.

You are the keeper

of the temple flame-

and where no temple stands

you become the hearth.

You are the one

who received the Word,

not as doctrine but as knowing

light

spoken

directly

into bone.

And I feel you, Mary.

not as messenger,

but as message.

Not telling the Gospel,

but living it-

in breath,

in body,

in being.