I seem to be on a roll with beasts, babies and special vision aided by technology.That's what I do when I'm playing homealone#10, not sick enough to be abed but not well enough to blast off in madness.
My "roll" is okay as long as I don't get stuck worshiping the technology instead of the vision beyond it or the spiritual wisdom within its service.
A front page photo in this morning's Boston' Globe pictures President-elect Barack Obama flanked by his new and sadly necessary constant companions, armed policemen. That isn't unusual but at the center of the photo stands a little boy, looking to be either ten or six or eight and shiningly blond. He faces the
powers and stares up at Obama whose hand is outstretched. Obama wears an expression of compassionate distress as if he is saying "Oh no."
We can't see the boy's face and the caption tells us nothing about the photo just that Obama is at the Capitol to build support for his economic plan, see p.A6. But the artful eye of the photographer captures the right moment. What would a child say?
Jesus famously told his followers that the wealth of the kingdom can be seen and realized by and in the presence of a child. There are many interpretations of this wisdom, but for me just now it makes me think of Victor RCA.
Victor has two black eyes, one more than his RCA namesake, and his head usually cocks to one side or the other. He's a Jack Russell so he barks at most things, even strangers who are passing by outside and even when Victor isn't standing guard at the window. Victor's barking doesn't last long and once he knows you he 's all affection.
Our son John acquired Victor who at the time was homeless and a giveaway. It was love at first sight. John will say that Victor saved his life when he went through a life-threatening series of surgeries a few years ago.
Victor was/is a communicator of divine grace, always present, ready to love unconditionally—barking included in the love. When John and Emily had their first child, Phoebe Catherine, they wondered how Victor would take the invasion, read how long and how much would he bark? When they brought Phoebe home Victor, instantly curious, did not bark at all. He merely sniffed and kissed in the rough wet lapping ways dogs do.
I'm still curious about the no barking. The new parents had given Victor one of Phoebe's wee hospital hats to condition him to her scent before she made her home debut. That was smart and likely helped. But no bark at all? I know Victor and he still barks at me before he kisses me. Maybe I should give him one of my hats? But I still wonder.
Maybe Victor's non-barking love had to do with the cap scent. It's best to do all you can to make things reconciling and peaceful even against strong odds like Victor's barking habit. It's good not to sit around expecting a miracle but to give a miracle an assist if you can.
But I think there's more, something like the presence of a child on the scene. A child changes things. A child can convert the hardest hearts, heal a whole family sometimes. I've seen this happen at an addictions intervention. After everyone had their persuasive but loving say, the littlest member of the family a four year old who understood nothing except that Grampa might need her to jump into his lap at that moment. The child swung it round.
A child might also stifle a Jack Russell's barking habit. Victor has remained non-barking with Phoebe. In fact he now tries to clean her ears with his sloppy kisses.
Maybe that little boy in the photo, who obviously touched Obama's heart, will stay with him in spirit-memory. Maybe the child will inspire the man to sell a hard package, even one involving taxes. It depends where you look. This press photographer caught grace in the eye of the camera.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Xray Vision
Just before Christmas this year I read an article in the Boston Globe (December 23, 1008) with this line in it: "The painting that is now a horizontal nativity was once a vertical crucifixion."
At first I thought it should be reversed— that the Renaissance painter, Jacopo Tintoretto, would have painted a Nativity scene before a Crucifixion scene. But not so. Using Xray technology at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, curators have discovered that the Tintoretto "Nativity" painted in 1580, contains a fascinating "hodgepodge" of images, a painting behind the painting.
To the trained eye "Nativity" has been an embarrassment, although it is enormous and presides over the museum's Koch gallery "It's off," said an asistant curator.
For example, a bearded shepherd, supposed after all to be entranced by the new baby in the crib is instead focused upward toward the sky not the central event. No parent in his or her right mind when snapping the one millionth photo of a newborn baby would aim for the sky.
It seems that the artist changed his mind and chopped up the original crucifixion canvas for reasons not known, pieced together a new vertical canvas, painted over the old subject matter and came up with "Nativity" (1580) It's a cut-and-paste job. It's not rare to paint over things but "to cannibalize your own picture is a very rare thing in European art," according to the curator.
Theories about Tintoretto's motivation abound of course, just as they do in a whodunnit mystery novel. It made me think of a line from Yeats' poem "The Magi." The poet describes the three sages silhouetted against the dark blue sky, traveling "hoping to find once more/ being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,/ the uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor." (Now I have cannibalized the poem by lifting the lines from the whole. But that's what Xray vision is; it focuses you where you need to see more. And spiritual Xray vision can help us detect the Holy in the oddest places, like crucifixes and gathered stable beasts peering at a newborn.
I wonder if, like the Magi in the ancient biblical story, Tintoretto was also unsatisfied with the gruesome death scene and suddenly needed to remember and re-present the birth. By Xray both are there.
Too bad we can't just cut up life like a canvas and pick and choose the parts that satisfy us. But we can remember and most of us do. Nevertheless, life is a mixed bag and, unlike horse and carriage or love and marriage, you really can't have life without both birth and death, the vertical and the horizontal always present in shadow form, one hovering in the background as the other for a time takes center stage. Then they switch, like Tintoretto switched his canvas's in focus and direction.
But it's all there by Xray.
Medical science takes Xrays to find disease, yes, but to determine as well the proper focus for healing and life-saving treatments.
It is spiritually healing I think, for us to live as peacefully as we can with this annoying mix. For at any moment the worst can become the best. If you polish up your spiritual Xray vision you can find life in death, blessing in curse—and even the reverse.
Good religion is always about transformation, things not being what they seem. With soul vision (spiritual Xray) I can sometimes see, when I take time— gaze enough, assume divine presence and ask for it— the Holy in the vulnerable beastly flesh, resurrection hope in a suffering death, the picture behind the picture behind the picture.
At first I thought it should be reversed— that the Renaissance painter, Jacopo Tintoretto, would have painted a Nativity scene before a Crucifixion scene. But not so. Using Xray technology at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, curators have discovered that the Tintoretto "Nativity" painted in 1580, contains a fascinating "hodgepodge" of images, a painting behind the painting.
To the trained eye "Nativity" has been an embarrassment, although it is enormous and presides over the museum's Koch gallery "It's off," said an asistant curator.
For example, a bearded shepherd, supposed after all to be entranced by the new baby in the crib is instead focused upward toward the sky not the central event. No parent in his or her right mind when snapping the one millionth photo of a newborn baby would aim for the sky.
It seems that the artist changed his mind and chopped up the original crucifixion canvas for reasons not known, pieced together a new vertical canvas, painted over the old subject matter and came up with "Nativity" (1580) It's a cut-and-paste job. It's not rare to paint over things but "to cannibalize your own picture is a very rare thing in European art," according to the curator.
Theories about Tintoretto's motivation abound of course, just as they do in a whodunnit mystery novel. It made me think of a line from Yeats' poem "The Magi." The poet describes the three sages silhouetted against the dark blue sky, traveling "hoping to find once more/ being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,/ the uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor." (Now I have cannibalized the poem by lifting the lines from the whole. But that's what Xray vision is; it focuses you where you need to see more. And spiritual Xray vision can help us detect the Holy in the oddest places, like crucifixes and gathered stable beasts peering at a newborn.
I wonder if, like the Magi in the ancient biblical story, Tintoretto was also unsatisfied with the gruesome death scene and suddenly needed to remember and re-present the birth. By Xray both are there.
Too bad we can't just cut up life like a canvas and pick and choose the parts that satisfy us. But we can remember and most of us do. Nevertheless, life is a mixed bag and, unlike horse and carriage or love and marriage, you really can't have life without both birth and death, the vertical and the horizontal always present in shadow form, one hovering in the background as the other for a time takes center stage. Then they switch, like Tintoretto switched his canvas's in focus and direction.
But it's all there by Xray.
Medical science takes Xrays to find disease, yes, but to determine as well the proper focus for healing and life-saving treatments.
It is spiritually healing I think, for us to live as peacefully as we can with this annoying mix. For at any moment the worst can become the best. If you polish up your spiritual Xray vision you can find life in death, blessing in curse—and even the reverse.
Good religion is always about transformation, things not being what they seem. With soul vision (spiritual Xray) I can sometimes see, when I take time— gaze enough, assume divine presence and ask for it— the Holy in the vulnerable beastly flesh, resurrection hope in a suffering death, the picture behind the picture behind the picture.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Dream and Journey
Francis of Assisi, founder of the order of Franciscan monastics and named a saint for his wisdom, his love of all critters even human ones, and his devotion to Jesus, said,"The journey is essential to the dream."
It's the message on our Christmas card so I've looked at it often, sometimes with rue. Why can't I have just the dream and have it just come true, presto? Or at least just keep on dreaming.
But I don't really want that. I want both. The dream keeps me living, learning, reaching and praying. And the journey keeps me awake, out of dreamland. The journey is sheer plod no matter what— pricked by brambles, tripped by unexpected obstacles, hoarse in the quest to be heard, confused by suffering, and angered by detours.
Still, you can't have one without the other. To journey without a dream stifles mind, body and spirit, all three. To dream without a journey? About the same I'd say.
My dream ever since I met Godde under the table when I was a small child and mysteriously knew I mattered —no matter what— has been to introduce that Godde to everyone I meet.
Today the journey is particularly difficult. God is a matter of indifference. Hatred might be easier, something to argue with. Indifference kills. But old wounds, bad teachings, "religious" wars staged by people who put God's name to it because they're afraid to use their own, overmasculinization, violence, suffering, injustice, all trauma and horror have never killed Godde and won't now.
I forgot Godde myself once because of an old man with a long white beard in a movie theater who looked like my picturebook image of God and who did bad things to me. Wrong God.
In time I remembered the right one, the under-the-table one I'd experienced. Because it wasn't just my narcissistic fantasy I still have the dream— and the journey.
You can too if you want. Try writing personal letters every day. Don't keep it all inside. Put it in writing. It's always better out than in. Make sure to address yourself to Godde or whatever you call your soul's desiring. Sign your name as if your prayer-letter mattered.
I haven't realized my dream of making known my under-the-table Godde in any grand way, but I keep the journey going and in small ways let others know they matter as Godde let me know I mattered.
It's the message on our Christmas card so I've looked at it often, sometimes with rue. Why can't I have just the dream and have it just come true, presto? Or at least just keep on dreaming.
But I don't really want that. I want both. The dream keeps me living, learning, reaching and praying. And the journey keeps me awake, out of dreamland. The journey is sheer plod no matter what— pricked by brambles, tripped by unexpected obstacles, hoarse in the quest to be heard, confused by suffering, and angered by detours.
Still, you can't have one without the other. To journey without a dream stifles mind, body and spirit, all three. To dream without a journey? About the same I'd say.
My dream ever since I met Godde under the table when I was a small child and mysteriously knew I mattered —no matter what— has been to introduce that Godde to everyone I meet.
Today the journey is particularly difficult. God is a matter of indifference. Hatred might be easier, something to argue with. Indifference kills. But old wounds, bad teachings, "religious" wars staged by people who put God's name to it because they're afraid to use their own, overmasculinization, violence, suffering, injustice, all trauma and horror have never killed Godde and won't now.
I forgot Godde myself once because of an old man with a long white beard in a movie theater who looked like my picturebook image of God and who did bad things to me. Wrong God.
In time I remembered the right one, the under-the-table one I'd experienced. Because it wasn't just my narcissistic fantasy I still have the dream— and the journey.
You can too if you want. Try writing personal letters every day. Don't keep it all inside. Put it in writing. It's always better out than in. Make sure to address yourself to Godde or whatever you call your soul's desiring. Sign your name as if your prayer-letter mattered.
I haven't realized my dream of making known my under-the-table Godde in any grand way, but I keep the journey going and in small ways let others know they matter as Godde let me know I mattered.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Big Three on Christmas Day
Faith. Hope. Love.
Did you think I meant the American car companies?
In all traditions, religious or not, the top three spiritual values are faith, hope and love. St. Paul tries to tell us that the greatest of these is love, but I think they are a trinity, co-existent and interdependent and of equal value although one may predominate from time to time according to your personal situation.
The time of transformation and hope for something new to be born is central to all faith, to all people. Christians at Christmas see this at the birth of Jesus, Godde as little baby—hard not to love. (Well, there's chronic colic. Hard not to care for anyway.)
Faith, hope and love are called spiritual because humanity can't control them, only be open to them, experience them, and be grateful. Ever try to make yourself love someone you don't? Or make someone love you? Ever try to give faith to someone, or hope? You can't. (It's worse than trying to get your loved one to stop smoking. In that case you let go and pray for a triple dose of all three.)
I wish you my blog readers and colleagues the joy of love, the wealth of faith, and the inner serenity of hope at Christmas and beyond— in equal measure.
Did you think I meant the American car companies?
In all traditions, religious or not, the top three spiritual values are faith, hope and love. St. Paul tries to tell us that the greatest of these is love, but I think they are a trinity, co-existent and interdependent and of equal value although one may predominate from time to time according to your personal situation.
The time of transformation and hope for something new to be born is central to all faith, to all people. Christians at Christmas see this at the birth of Jesus, Godde as little baby—hard not to love. (Well, there's chronic colic. Hard not to care for anyway.)
Faith, hope and love are called spiritual because humanity can't control them, only be open to them, experience them, and be grateful. Ever try to make yourself love someone you don't? Or make someone love you? Ever try to give faith to someone, or hope? You can't. (It's worse than trying to get your loved one to stop smoking. In that case you let go and pray for a triple dose of all three.)
I wish you my blog readers and colleagues the joy of love, the wealth of faith, and the inner serenity of hope at Christmas and beyond— in equal measure.
Hopes and Fears
"The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight." So goes a line of the old Christmas carol, "O Little Town of Bethlehem."
Hopes and fears. Where, how will they meet? Where is Bethlehem this year?
I feel stretched thin on the rack of hopes and fears right now. It's a messy mix to have swirling around mind and heart together. Neither one edges out the other completely; both are true.
I remember when my labor started for my first child I cried in fear anticipating the pain to come. I wanted it to stop, even prayed for that I think. At the same time I hoped almost to assurance that a little child would push its way with me through me out into the light. She did, a beautiful, hirsute, squawling baby girl, now 45 and still beautiful.
But I'd wanted to separate the fear from the hope, the labor from its fruit. I wanted to have one without the other. I still try for that.
I have labored over a manuscript— my vocational story of becoming a priest, my story of getting to know and love Godde and myself, my story of how I came to know that what happens to Godde happens to me.
I've labored. I wait. I labor to find a publisher. I fear my story is too insignificant and my timing lousy. I still hope for a publisher or some attractive alternative. Hope and fear together. I let them wrestle, watch my seesaw mood soar and plummet daily (no I'm not bipolar!—yet) Where and how will they meet?
The meeting of these two apparent emotional enemies comes for me in tears, tears that melt the tension.
When I began my labor I was afraid to be a "baby" and cry in fear. When I admitted this to my husband he gave me a hug and luckily didn't tell me how terrified he was.
When a friend recently wrote that somewhere out there there is a publisher who wants me I wept. Even a tired old cliche can be holy.
When hopes and fear come together and vulnerability is born I know the Holy is around, something new will be born.
Godde only knows what, who or when.
Hopes and fears. Where, how will they meet? Where is Bethlehem this year?
I feel stretched thin on the rack of hopes and fears right now. It's a messy mix to have swirling around mind and heart together. Neither one edges out the other completely; both are true.
I remember when my labor started for my first child I cried in fear anticipating the pain to come. I wanted it to stop, even prayed for that I think. At the same time I hoped almost to assurance that a little child would push its way with me through me out into the light. She did, a beautiful, hirsute, squawling baby girl, now 45 and still beautiful.
But I'd wanted to separate the fear from the hope, the labor from its fruit. I wanted to have one without the other. I still try for that.
I have labored over a manuscript— my vocational story of becoming a priest, my story of getting to know and love Godde and myself, my story of how I came to know that what happens to Godde happens to me.
I've labored. I wait. I labor to find a publisher. I fear my story is too insignificant and my timing lousy. I still hope for a publisher or some attractive alternative. Hope and fear together. I let them wrestle, watch my seesaw mood soar and plummet daily (no I'm not bipolar!—yet) Where and how will they meet?
The meeting of these two apparent emotional enemies comes for me in tears, tears that melt the tension.
When I began my labor I was afraid to be a "baby" and cry in fear. When I admitted this to my husband he gave me a hug and luckily didn't tell me how terrified he was.
When a friend recently wrote that somewhere out there there is a publisher who wants me I wept. Even a tired old cliche can be holy.
When hopes and fear come together and vulnerability is born I know the Holy is around, something new will be born.
Godde only knows what, who or when.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
MIssed Calls
Imagine: You stroll through a cemetery near your home, not because you have a morbid fascination with death but because you are lonely, the moon lights your way, and the stars like a crowd, move with you. Suddenly you hear a little tune. You stop, look around, hear it again. It's perky, friendly. It's calling you. Not easily frightened you now feel the hair on your neck bristle. No one is around. Are there such things as fairies and elves? You follow the sound to the ground. Yes, it's coming from one of the graves. You put your ear close to the ground and hear the faint tinkle again. Familiar. Yes, it's on the menu of cell phone ring tones. You almost chose it.
How far can technology go? Is this the latest way seances are accomplished? You're spooked?
So was I when I read the December 16th online report from MSNBC on burying people with their cell phones by their side. Activated! Mourners say it brings them comfort, like burying Granny with her precious dog's old collar or favorite recipe. I suppose if your dad or mother spent so much time with their ear attached to a bluetooth or a cell phone you might think they couldn't die without it. One woman buried her husband with his phone equipped with new batteries. She is still paying the monthly fee for the phone.
Is this madness or deep spiritual need? Surely it's a sign to take seriously. It's a symbol. Many people today are so strung out you can pluck them. They'd vibrate but make no music. Is the little cell tune music to their ears, music to salve their fear of disconnection, death?
Or is this something to laugh about as a friend did when she quipped, "I'd rather have them bury the phones than bring them into the restaurant where I'm having lunch."
As a Christian I think of the Holy Spirit as the Great Connector, the one who has no fear, who enters even the darkest corners of human need to bring faith, hope or love. The one whose signal never cuts out or breaks up.
A little boy goes off to kindergarten for the first time. He's scared. His mother gives him hugs and whispers sweet words into his ear. He goes alone into the classroom. Sometime during the morning the child feels the same fear he felt when he left home. Maybe the teacher frowned or another child shoved him. The boy just then remembers his mother's embrace of the morning. He feels the warmth in his body and hears her words in his inner ear, although mom isn't present. His fear is replaced— by love enough to know he is good, faith enough to know he is capable, and hope enough to know his mother will reappear in the flesh soon. He'll take it with him when he dies.
That's the work of the Great Connector. It's spiritual work. Cell phones feel like like hugs and sweet words in a busy world I admit, but get a hug anyway—just in case your battery runs out or you can't afford your monthlies.
I love my cell phone but I'm not taking it with me.
How far can technology go? Is this the latest way seances are accomplished? You're spooked?
So was I when I read the December 16th online report from MSNBC on burying people with their cell phones by their side. Activated! Mourners say it brings them comfort, like burying Granny with her precious dog's old collar or favorite recipe. I suppose if your dad or mother spent so much time with their ear attached to a bluetooth or a cell phone you might think they couldn't die without it. One woman buried her husband with his phone equipped with new batteries. She is still paying the monthly fee for the phone.
Is this madness or deep spiritual need? Surely it's a sign to take seriously. It's a symbol. Many people today are so strung out you can pluck them. They'd vibrate but make no music. Is the little cell tune music to their ears, music to salve their fear of disconnection, death?
Or is this something to laugh about as a friend did when she quipped, "I'd rather have them bury the phones than bring them into the restaurant where I'm having lunch."
As a Christian I think of the Holy Spirit as the Great Connector, the one who has no fear, who enters even the darkest corners of human need to bring faith, hope or love. The one whose signal never cuts out or breaks up.
A little boy goes off to kindergarten for the first time. He's scared. His mother gives him hugs and whispers sweet words into his ear. He goes alone into the classroom. Sometime during the morning the child feels the same fear he felt when he left home. Maybe the teacher frowned or another child shoved him. The boy just then remembers his mother's embrace of the morning. He feels the warmth in his body and hears her words in his inner ear, although mom isn't present. His fear is replaced— by love enough to know he is good, faith enough to know he is capable, and hope enough to know his mother will reappear in the flesh soon. He'll take it with him when he dies.
That's the work of the Great Connector. It's spiritual work. Cell phones feel like like hugs and sweet words in a busy world I admit, but get a hug anyway—just in case your battery runs out or you can't afford your monthlies.
I love my cell phone but I'm not taking it with me.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Lucy
December 13th. St. Lucy's Day.
Lucy is know as the patron saint of people with poor or no eyesight. Her name means "light." Little is known historically about Lucy except that she died for her refusal to deny her Christian faith. Details include her defiance of an arranged marriage which inspired her angry proposed husband-to-be to betray her Christian faith to the authorities during the Diocletian persecutions.
You could call it martyrdom on Lucy' part, submitting to death for her ideals, or you could call it what else is new in the world of violence against women? Women are injured, abused, oppressed and, yes, killed, for their politics, religious beliefs or just plain femaleness. How dare we exist!
Perhaps Lucy saw beyond promises and assurance and obedience to the ways of her time. Perhaps she saw beyond what the physical eye could see into a spiritual death worse than biological death.
All Lucy wanted to do was give her money to the poor and her life to the service of Godde, a deity who created her free and worthy as a woman.
What I admire in Lucy is her courage to stand up and be counted at dire risk.
I think of Lucy's day as one of our personal family saint days, a day when three years ago, thanks to the courage of telling and hearing the truth in love, something transformative happened, something saving.
I think of a granddaughter Lucia (LuLu or Luci) who has bright eyes and the chutzpah to go with it. You know when she is around. She's only four and not afraid to be.
I think of a friend named Christie who is legally blind and has been able to design, implement, and raise money to support a day program for senior citizens she cares for and can't see.
Christie prays for the strengthening of her third eye AND the restoration of her actual vision which has been declared a medical impossibility. It takes guts to stand up and be counted before Godde with your honest desires. No fudging. No goody goody prayers like: It would be nice if I could see, but other people have it much worse off, and look at all the blessings I have; besides Godde has greater concerns and work than little old me.
Truth in prayer is as essential (not to outcomes but to the strengthening of your relationship with the divine) in prayertalk as it is in peopletalk. Lucy and all those we see as holy on church calendars and in our personal lives did that. It's why there are revered.
Thank you St. Lucy, Christie, Lucia and all of you who have sight beyond sight and are brave enough to tell it like it is even without hard visual evidence and guarantees.
Lucy is know as the patron saint of people with poor or no eyesight. Her name means "light." Little is known historically about Lucy except that she died for her refusal to deny her Christian faith. Details include her defiance of an arranged marriage which inspired her angry proposed husband-to-be to betray her Christian faith to the authorities during the Diocletian persecutions.
You could call it martyrdom on Lucy' part, submitting to death for her ideals, or you could call it what else is new in the world of violence against women? Women are injured, abused, oppressed and, yes, killed, for their politics, religious beliefs or just plain femaleness. How dare we exist!
Perhaps Lucy saw beyond promises and assurance and obedience to the ways of her time. Perhaps she saw beyond what the physical eye could see into a spiritual death worse than biological death.
All Lucy wanted to do was give her money to the poor and her life to the service of Godde, a deity who created her free and worthy as a woman.
What I admire in Lucy is her courage to stand up and be counted at dire risk.
I think of Lucy's day as one of our personal family saint days, a day when three years ago, thanks to the courage of telling and hearing the truth in love, something transformative happened, something saving.
I think of a granddaughter Lucia (LuLu or Luci) who has bright eyes and the chutzpah to go with it. You know when she is around. She's only four and not afraid to be.
I think of a friend named Christie who is legally blind and has been able to design, implement, and raise money to support a day program for senior citizens she cares for and can't see.
Christie prays for the strengthening of her third eye AND the restoration of her actual vision which has been declared a medical impossibility. It takes guts to stand up and be counted before Godde with your honest desires. No fudging. No goody goody prayers like: It would be nice if I could see, but other people have it much worse off, and look at all the blessings I have; besides Godde has greater concerns and work than little old me.
Truth in prayer is as essential (not to outcomes but to the strengthening of your relationship with the divine) in prayertalk as it is in peopletalk. Lucy and all those we see as holy on church calendars and in our personal lives did that. It's why there are revered.
Thank you St. Lucy, Christie, Lucia and all of you who have sight beyond sight and are brave enough to tell it like it is even without hard visual evidence and guarantees.
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