When I was in Rome earlier this year as part of this Pilgrimage year, I remembered those tiny paint boxes that we used to get for Christmas when I was a kid. Each little square or tube of colour had an unfathomable name; Yellow Ochre, Warm Sienna, Burnt Umber, Terracotta, Vermillion. I had no idea what they were or how they . . .
Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swamps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists.. it is real.. it is possible.. . . .
The city of Rome is a masculine environment. The might of the Basillicas of both Ancient Rome and Vatican Rome, the heroic figures in the sculptures of the Piazza Navonna and the Trevi Fountain. The strong backs of suited men drinking espressos at cafe counters in the early morning. Rome . . .
I skip the Pope's house this time. I am always cautious not to disrespect another's idea of beauty or religion, all I know is that I would never find light there. In the midst of droves of pilgrims making their way to the Basillica of St. Peter's I am as usual walking in the opposite direction, towards the pagan . . .