Hello!
There are three holy water fonts on my dresser. They are precious to me not necessarily for religious reasons, but for their shape. Though I’ve been tempted as-of-late to fill them (see my bio), they are also precious because they are empty. Their half-bowl curvatures are so stunning and tempting because they are empty, waiting to be filled.
In the Catholic tradition, holy water fonts stand guard at church doors so the faithful can purify themselves upon entering and leaving the church. They dip two fingers into the bowls filled with holy water, bring their fingers to their foreheads, and eventually touch their chests and shoulders as they make the sign of the cross. When my sister and I were little, we would make sure to get some holy water spritz on our clothing, especially if it was a dress or sweater we hadn’t before worn. I suppose we wanted a blessed wardrobe. How audacious of us.
To me these three fonts are resting places. They are waiting for me to fill them, and if I ever do get around to it, these little vessels would wait patiently for me to walk through the door. I like the idea that they are in my service, keepers of the holy water that runs in all of our veins. It doesn’t matter to me if they are as authentic or potent as my Sunday school teachers of yore would have had me believe. I like the story of them. I like their presence. I like holy objects and the stories we inject into them.
Being a writer is similar to being a vessel. And these holy water fonts remind me of my writer-self. My mind swells with possibilities and curiosities, with things I don’t have time to think about, with things I want more time to think about, with things I want other people to hear me think about—both aloud and on the page. If you are reading the blog post of a writer-woman, then perhaps your mind has similar tendencies. Perhaps you have the stuff of holy, creative water running through your veins, hydrating your skin, bringing oxygen and life into your big, curious, immaculate brain.
You’ll notice pictures of holy things on this website. You might read future blog posts I have planned about pilgrimages and rituals. If life goes as planned (which I recognize and accept it rarely does), you may one day read my book which praises, questions, and pokes at the Children of Fatima. If you choose to check back in with this blog (fingers crossed!), you’ll hear much, much more about these children. Maybe too much. I’m not proselytizing—I promise. My spiritual life wanes, and even in an up-tick, I keep it mostly to myself. But there’s something about a plastic rosary bead that utterly thrills me. Praying the rosary is an ancient tradition that offers hope to caricatures of withered nuns with puffy cheeks and others of all ages and sizes around the globe. It’s a powerful tool that offers intercession between humans and Mary. And, these beads are available in plastic packs on Amazon for less than $1.00. On many levels—that dichotomy is fascinating.
My three holy water fonts speak to all levels of religious fervor. The largest features a ceramic angel’s head. It’s from Italy—most definitely worth more than anything else on my dresser—and it belonged to my father’s late cousin who shared a similar passion as I for trinketry. The other two, much lower in monetary value, are from a Catholic gift shop in Fatima, Portugal. If you’ve never gone inside of a Catholic gift shop, I implore you to give it a try. They are caves of tacky, hopeful wonder. I went to Fatima this summer in pursuit of knowledge about the Children of Fatima—longtime obsessions of mine and the previously-mentioned subjects of my novel-in-progress. My time in Fatima taught me that to be spiritual is to research an obsession—to honor something the brain has clutched onto and won’t let go. I try my best to be a woman who participates in the world but who also lies down under the surges of my brain when my eyes pop open in the night.
As the dawn of my third decade approaches, I’ve made a vow to myself—at the instruction of a friend—to be more productive for myself than for others. To turn inward. This sounds selfish, but, to me, it doesn’t mean to forget about service and justice and checking in with friends. Instead, I’ve taken this wise advice and made a vow—to dedicate myself to writing and to paying attention to what my mind notices. A teacher by trade and a humanist by design, I want to help others realize their creative projects, too. Is that breaking my vow? I don’t think so. Why can’t our obsessions be complementary?
What’s sitting on your dresser? What obsessions, curiosities, and tendencies surround you that deserve your attention? Dip your fingers into whatever is waiting at the threshold of whatever your sanctuary looks like. Let’s find out together what’s inside. Let’s wear it proudly on our foreheads, our shoulders, and our hearts.