There are many mentions of Mary at Christmastime. Mary’s visit from the angel, Mary’s heart-pondering, Mary’s immaculate conception (which I’ve always found rather funny), Mary & Joseph’s long trek to escape Herod, Mary & Joseph in the stable-‘cause-there-was-no-room-for-them-in-the-inn, and finally the birth of Mary’s son, Jesus Christ, Savior of all humankind (well, at least the Baptists think so).
It really is a great story. One I’ve heard read - and have read out loud - hundreds of times. One I’ve acted out - an angel at age three, Mary herself at age sixteen - dozens of times. Since I could sit up on my mother’s knee, Mary’s story has been part of every single one of my Decembers. Generation after generation of my family have gone to church on Christmas Eve, lit candles, and preached, read, heard, sung, and remembered the story (and if my father could get away with it, all over again on Christmas morning). Though, in my family’s denominations, Mary would often get shoved to the side of the story, and we’d just focus on Jesus. After all, it was his birth we were celebrating and God the Father’s plan for salvation we were celebrating (well, at least the Baptists think so), even though, technically, when it came to Christ’s arrival … Mary did the bulk of the work.
Just sayin’.
This year, for my day job, I made plans to stay in New York City for Christmas, and visit my family after New Year’s. As I jotted down my baking ingredient and Essential Christmas Movie lists, I remembered … Mary! Yikes! What about Mary? (Pardon the movie pun.) How would I honor Mary’s story? I’d done this, for years, in the tradition of my family. But, this year … I wanted to do something different. I wanted to create a tradition of my own.
What did I do?
You guessed it.
On Christmas morning, I went to the movies. I went to the movies to honor Mary’s story. But a different Mary. A Mary that I’d been introduced to round about the time as the other one. A Mary who’d molded my heart. A Mary who’s Saviour-like Beatitudes had woven themselves into the fabric of my life, without my even realizing it. Until Christmas morning.
Mary Poppins.
Despite the amusing fact that I was the only childless Gentile in the movie theater, I sat in mesmerized joy and gratitude, beholding Mary Poppins and her story; my very first viewing on a big screen. When the film ended, I walked down Central Park West humming “Let’s Go Fly a Kite”, and prayerfully pondered the lessons she’d bestowed upon me. I knew that I had to share them.
In celebration of this season of new life and miracles, I now present:
The Beatitudes (or Life Lessons) My Nanny Taught Me
1. Claim your space.
Upon her arrival, Mary Poppins states her terms to Mr. Banks. She outlines who she is and what she does, matter-of-factly, without apology or fear. She’s then shown to her bedroom. Mary examines it, takes in a satisfied breath, and to the children’s delight, populates the room with larger-than-life plants and lamps and mirrors and purple shoes, signatures of herself. She pulls all out of a magic carpet bag that only reveals what she chooses it to. Item by item, she shows the children who she is and claims the room as her own.
Mary is the queen of assertiveness and boundaries. She knows: being present for a job means being present. She claims space, first and wherever she goes. She doesn’t take up anyone else’s space, just her own; but she claims the fullness of that space, expressing the fullness of herself, on her terms, always.
2. When overwhelmed, snap your fingers.
Jane and Michael don’t want to tidy up their nursery. They have discovered - at the ages of six and eight, respectively - one of life’s I Can’t Stand It Tasks, one of at least 843 more they will discover in adulthood. Mary doesn’t waste a minute; she puts on her apron and insists that the children tackle this task, before they go anywhere or do anything. She knows the danger of I Can’t Stand It Tasks. Left undone, they all pile up and up and up into one mammoth, impenetrable mountain called I Hate My Life. You can get buried under this mountain, for weeks, months, years; you lose your ability to move, and - most especially - you misplace your joy. Mary inspires Jane and Michael by introducing them to a free-moving, joy-filled robin, who works diligently at I Can’t Stand It Tasks, and finishes them, singing about it all, in fact. Mary shows Jane and Michael that -snap! - with the right attitude, impossible work turns into productive play. You really can move a mountain with faith the size of a mustard seed. Just snap your fingers.
3. Picture where you want to be, and jump in.
Mary takes Jane and Michael on an outing, to the park. It’s cold and grey and terribly dreary-looking. But the entrance she chooses is peppered with Bert’s colorful chalk drawings. Jane stands before a drawing of a sunny summer countryside, points at it, and says, “If you please, I’d much rather go there.” Mary takes their hands, and they all four jump straight into the picture.
Clad in their chalky finest, they then have a wonderful sunny summer countryside adventure, complete with dancing penguins, a horse race, and, of course, the biggest word you’ve ever heard. Despite their dreary surroundings, Mary takes the children near another possibility in its midst, the possibility of picturing something different. Jane does, takes a leap of faith, and her imagination transports her. If you can picture it, and you’re willing to take the leap, you can get to wherever it is that you want to be.
4. Be optimistic, but keep your feet on the ground.
Mary wouldn’t be a wise nanny if she didn’t teach with balance. It’s well and good to joyously snap your fingers and jump into the pictures you imagine, but if you’re not grounded while doing all that, you won’t get anywhere. You’ll end up like Uncle Albert.
Uncle Albert loves to laugh. He can’t stop. He spends all day and all night floating about his home, giggling and guffawing. He has tea parties on the ceiling - of course. He tells glorious jokes. He’s great fun. His dilemma is, to Jane and Michael, both hilarious and endearing. But Mary knows that it’s just plain dangerous. What happens when he runs out of food on his floating tea tables? What happens when his health begins to fail because he’s gone days and days without sleep? What happens when his electricity shuts off because he can’t come down to pay his bill, or any bills at all for that matter? Uncle Albert can’t finish any of his Can’t Stand It Tasks, nor can he jump into any dream he’s pictured. He’s so paralyzed by his “optimism” that all he can do is wait for Bert and Mary to come and rescue him. When he does come down, he’s incapacitated, and can only sit and sob.
Mary introduces the children to Uncle Albert. She also introduces the children to her concern about Uncle Albert. They join in his fun for a time, but then stop. Mary takes the children on, to practical things. They never again ask her if they can join Uncle Albert on the ceiling. They’ve learned. Grounded optimism walks you forward. Un-grounded optimism floats you nowhere.
5. See the needs of the powerful and the power of the needful. Help both.
Bert: You know, beggin’ you pardon, but the one my heart goes out to is your father. There he is in that cold, heartless bank day after day, hemmed in by mounds of cold, heartless money. I don’t like to see any living thing caged up.
Jane: Father? In a cage?
Bert: They makes cages in all sizes and shapes, you know. Bank-shaped, some of ‘em, carpets and all.
George Banks, Jane and Michael’s father, is - outwardly - an Edwardian England model of success. He has a growing career at a prestigious bank, a gorgeous home, a full staff to cater to his every need, a beautiful wife who submits to his every opinion, and two nannied and well-dressed children out of sight and out of mind. But he’s not happy. Not one bit. He’s completely cut off from his family and his heart, blinded by a fear of not being enough. Jane and Michael, as children do, blame themselves for his behavior, and fear that they are not enough for him. Mary dares to tell them the truth, that their father is human, that he and he alone is responsible for his behavior, just as they are. Learning this truth, the children could easily - and justifiably - resent, disrespect, blame their father. But Mary dares to suggest something else. Have compassion on him. Help him to see.
Mary sings a simple and prayerful song to Jane and Michael, called Feed the Birds. In it, she introduces them to a shabby-looking old woman, who - it just so happens - sits, daily, right next to George’s bank, entreating all its inhabitants to, please, feed the birds. Such a small request. Such a small woman, according to the likes of George. But this woman is larger than George, larger than the bank, larger than the cathedral steps she inhabits, for she is fully connected to her heart, to her family of birds, to the world.
Mary: … All around the cathedral the saints and apostles look down as she sells her wares. Although you can’t see it, you know they are smiling each time someone shows that he cares. Though her words are simple and few, listen, listen, she’s calling to you …
Mary sends Jane and Michael to the bank with their father, and they point the woman out to him. They protest again and again that they want to give their money to her, to her birds. As we know, this conflict causes an ambush on the bank, and George to lose his job, but it’s only when he loses everything that he realizes … he has everything. He has Jane and Michael. He has a family. Thanks to his children’s help, he finds his heart again. He sees.
6. Welcome another’s perspective.
Mary’s closest pal and helper, throughout her story, is a lovable bloke named Bert. It’s suggested, several times, that he’s sweet on her. But, of course, who isn’t sweet on Mary Poppins? Bert doesn’t have much money; he’s forever moving from odd job to odd job to make ends meet. He doesn’t have much education. He doesn’t have many social graces. He isn’t always clean. Being part of the Edwardian upper class, it’s quite scandalous for Jane and Michael and Mary to even associate with the likes of Bert. But they do, gladly. He accompanies them on their adventures. Soon, they accompany him on his. They enter his world. They climb up on his rooftops, dance with his family, cover themselves in his soot, float up and up and up and see their world from his vantage point.
Bert: What did I tell ya? There’s the whole world at your feet. And who gets to see it but the birds, the stars, and the chimney sweeps.
By the end of the film, Bert is welcomed into the Banks’s home by none other than Mrs. Banks herself, and with a mere few gentle and piercing sentences, Bert expresses more wisdom and insight than Mr. Banks has heard in his entire life. It melts his heart.
Welcome another’s perspective. It could just change your life.
7. Nobody’s perfect.
Parrot Umbrella: That’s gratitude for you. Didn’t even say goodbye!
Mary Poppins: No, they didn’t.
Parrot Umbrella: Look at them! You know, they think more of their father than they do of you!
Mary Poppins: That’s as it should be.
Parrot Umbrella: Well? Don’t you care?
Mary Poppins: Practically perfect people never permit sentiment to muddle their thinking.
Parrot Umbrella: Is that so? Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Mary Poppins: you don’t fool me a bit!
Mary Poppins: Oh, really?
Parrot Umbrella: Yes, really. I know exactly how you feel about these children, and if you think I’m going to keep my mouth shut any longer, I-
Mary Poppins: (squeezing his beak shut) That will be quite enough of that, thank you.
This is one of my favorite scenes in the film. For the briefest of moments, we see Mary Poppins blink back actual tears. We see that Mary has sentiment for Jane and Michael; more than that, she has deep love for their entire family. She will miss them, terribly. She’s grieved and angry that they didn’t say goodbye to her. She’s especially grieved and angry that she didn’t let them. This brings me to the biggest irony of the film, the one that haunts and saddens me the most.
Mary Poppins, throughout, claims that she’s Practically Perfect. The important word in that phrase is ‘practically’. Not ‘mostly’, ‘nearly’, or ‘completely’, but ‘practically’. It’s a well-chosen word, one that leaves a lot of leeway. Mary isn’t perfect, not by a long shot. She has countless moments of vanity, pompousness, impatience, entitlement, aloofness. And those are only the moments we see. Bert has obviously known her for years. What other parts of Mary has he seen? Her constant companion, the Parrot Umbrella, definitely knows her well. What other parts of Mary has he seen?
For so many, the holy birth is holy because Mary is an untouched virgin, humble and submissive, with no obvious faults. Practically Perfect. For so many, the Saviour is a Saviour because he’s superhuman, sinless, with no obvious hormones. Practically Perfect. That doesn’t sit well with me. I doubt it would sit well with Mary Poppins, either.
I doubt that Mary would encourage any of her helped children to grow up and be her. She feigns perfection in order to do her job. It works. But Mary knows, deep down - and so does her Parrot Umbrella - that perfection is a construct, that its ‘-ism’ closes off a heart to the hearts around it, leaving it terribly lonely. Mary teaches her helped children to embrace and work with their imperfections, thusly connecting their hearts to the hearts around them. That is what births the sacred; that is what saves humanity.
Like Jane and Michael, I’ve never gotten to thank Mary Poppins, or to say goodbye to her. With each film viewing, I again remember to try, but she’s already flown away. I’m left wondering. Where - and to whom - does she go? Does she have friends? Does she have family? Does she have someplace - anyplace - where she can let her hair down and be her imperfect self? And be loved for it?
I hope so. I hope with all my heart.
And I love her with all my heart. Not practically. Completely. Always.
