Winter 2009
Black Madonna and child, high in the recesses of a cathedral in Monserrat, Spain.
I am lost in my reverence.
Like St. Teresa of Avila at Holy communion, who grabbed the grill to stop her own upward ascent
I found my way upward to greet her.
I joined the line of those that want to touch, if only for a moment, the Grace of the mother and child who holds the world in his hands.
Following the stairs, we move as one through an arched walled birthing canal of saints, painted centuries ago, towards a final stop at a baptismal font for the cleansing.
Finally, the journey upwards stops quietly and reverently, the final two shallow steps raising one up and forward to be close to her. I reach up and place my hand on the world that the Holy Mother holds out to me.
I am moved. Not Catholic, with no dogma and no history, I am still moved. There is something there that transcends religion. Millions have come to do just as I have done. To touch this hallowed orb and be in the presence of this most holy union.
Leaving their prayers behind, scattered as tickets on the floor and held in space and time, you can feel those prayers here, with her, and with Him. None have left the building.
The moment has come and gone. I walk down the back stairs to a small chapel behind to quietly take in what has just been shown. The chapel opens to the back side of the Madonna and child statue. The alter and chairs far below.
I sit quietly, lost in thought, watching, watching, watching the back of the Madonna sculpture.
As if on cue, the face of Jesus appears blocking the Madonna. I whisper to my lover, “do you see what I see?” Without a beat, he replies, yes. I am quieted as he is a non-believer, so my vision is not my own desire for intercession.
And then it was gone.
We took our time leaving. He waits while I light a candle to today and everyday going forward that I might draw closer to God – no matter where or how. Under the banner of any religion or no religion.
The gondola ride back to the train and the world we knew awaited us. As if nothing has happened.
Thus begins my many cross-cultural journeys to find black Madonnas with that same reverence and sublime connection to the Divine.
Letters to the Universe 