Dear Ernest…


Dear Ernest…
Such a magic day as I by chance read of a lecture on your work… and immediately thought I must go to the temple of your most profoundly spiritual expression, Our Lady of Victory Chapel. So I did.

There was sunlight that illuminated the carvings and the peacocks and the stations of the cross and the doorways with the leaves and grapes and the lacy choir loft with its little guardian angels. Music of all kinds, flutes, piano, reverberant organ. Young faces, young voices.

Was I ever as they are? Never.

I looked for more, some different aspect of you. I imagined a room with wooden tables and tubs of clay.  You spoke to a group of young students and rolled up your sleeves. There were old scars on your arms. What from?

They tied their aprons on, then plunged their hands into the cool thick earthy clay and pressed the clay into plaster molds.  They gathered round you as you carved ancient designs into your slab of clay with strong yet fluent movements.

Outside the chapel, I looked up at the carved stone, populated with saints and creatures and angels, like a medieval German or French Cathedral..

Each saint had a name carved at his or her feet except two…one on the right side of the door held a board clustered with…tiles…I imagined this was an avatar of you.

Directly opposite on the left side of the door, there was another unidentified angel, with shield and sword, one whose power exists only in scriptural dreams.

A warrior whose power I wished were real….

I thought that one who has discovered me should undiscover me for his own good.

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