Today is the Feast of St. Mary of Magdala, which translates to St. Mary of Elegance. Jesus’ hetaira, she has become, at least through myth, perhaps the last in a long line of sacred and blessed religious sex priestesses.
Here’s my brilliant friend, Amy, singing her praises:
And, of course, here’s the hymn attributed to her that I knew as a young woman:
She inspires poetry to this day:
You know it was funny because he seemed so well the night before
I stayed over to meet a student before class
—sitting at the picnic table…already so hot so early.
I must have been looking for a pen or something
when I thought of the car keys and, rummaging through my bag,
couldn’t find them and was up and walking across the grass when
I heard myself say, I feel as if I’m going to lose something today,
—and then I knew, and ran the rest of the way.
Me, I’m a long way from wanting to enable/adore/care for some man or some god. But I still think of this Mary as a friend of mine, a fantasy I had when I was young and didn’t dare to know myself.