Saturday, December 22, 2012
Barbara Brown Taylor, the writer-priest, suggested I write about a room I'll never be able to return to again. My interpretation was a bit fantastical, but it speaks to what I long for.
"Imaginary rooms are just as real, meaningful, and comforting as the real thing."
Blue floors. It has deep blue floors, made of marble. White swirls duck, dodge, and twirl though the blue. It looks alive, like an ocean. If you aren't careful, you can get lost in it's beauty and power.
High windows let the light in, beaming down, illuminating.
It's hazy. Maybe incense, but definitely sweet to my senses.
I'm relaxed here. I don't want to leave.
An icon, up high between two round windows, brighter than the stars.
It's Mary. Her head tilted. Not stern, she wears a soft smile.
She's my mother. And she gently holds me with her gaze.
There's no chair, but there is a stone table. An altar.
I stand, not because there isn't a chair. Simply because the chair would be useless and distracting.
The walls are rough stone, each a bit different shade of gray.
The pockmarks on the stones tell stories.
What saints put their hands on those stones, put their fingers in these caverns on the wall, reaching to touch that Spirit dwelling in all things, even stones?
Hanging from the ceiling, touching the wall, are banners of deep blue crushed velvet. I'd like to rest on them, in them.
Where is everybody else? There's no one here to share this discovery with.
Am I even supposed to be here? I'm not really sure, but I'm glad I am.
I hear water, but I can't see a spring.
I see a flame flickering, but I see no candle.
I feel a warm embrace, but see no man. Why can't I stay? I don't want to forget this feeling.