Annunciation
‘Miriam hardly had a room of her own.’ Elizabeth Johnson
It was not as it has long been pictured.
I did not sit alone, in silken garbs,
reading my book.
There was no enclosed garden.
Lilies did not grow
in our hot Palestinian courtyards.
For a start, it was never quiet.
People were always coming and going
in the compound:
fetching water
ferrying animals or children
hanging out the washing
pounding corn
or gathering for gossip
under the dark olive trees.
And prayers were noisy, too.
We intoned the Shema in unison,
the whole gabble of us,
whoever happened to be around at the time.
Elders recited the scriptures
while children grizzled
and goats shuffled in their pens.
Don’t imagine me rapt in ecstasy
or fingering a rosary:
the prayers of Jewish girls
are more pragmatic.
I was never alone, anyway.
There was always somebody
wanting something:
‘Miriam, help me make the bread.’
‘Miriam, clear that trestle.’
‘Miriam, fetch more water.’
No angel wafted in on golden wings.
Gabriel barged in,
banging his bag down on the table.
It was the only way he could get my attention
above the din.
At least a dozen pairs of eyes turned to look
where he stood,
dishevelled and dusty, shouting,
‘Miriam, there’s another job
for you to do.’
Nicola Slee,
from ‘The Book of Mary’
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