the patron saint of delusion
can i get a hallelujah can i get an amen
mandorla: (Italian: “almond”), in religious art, almond-shaped aureole of light surrounding the entire figure of a holy person
if all else fails, i have my holy escape hatch. (not really. unless?)
i saw a video of nuns playing soccer when i was fourteen and thought, wow, they look so free. they lived in a storybook-perfect home with rocking chairs on the porch and cerulean shutters. i watched their tunics whipping in the wind while their feet carved nimble pathways into the grass, captivated. a home full of smart, active women-- imagine that. i thought to myself: well, if it all goes to shit, if i have exhausted plans a b c d e f and g, i could become a nun.
i’m kidding, of course. i don’t think they’d like me very much at a convent. who would i be without my earthly pleasures of social media scrolling, tarot cards, and sex and the city? if there was a convent where everyone was like sister holiday in scorched grace by margot douaihy (read: tattooed, queer, nosy), maybe i’d reconsider. i think the itch i was looking to scratch was just being in community with other women. (are there even young nuns outside of fiction? besides the dutiful hot girls of our nation who don the habit for halloween every year? young hot nuns in your area! i can see the poorly rendered ad now.)
maybe the itch i was looking to scratch, more broadly, was being elsewhere, being someone else.
i see a mandorla around everyone who is living a different life than mine. a halo that shines cooler, more carefree, more autonomous. an all-knowing glitter. it’s not jealousy. jealousy and i have gotten chummy. we used to be enemies, but i see her now for who she truly is-- a compass, nudging me towards where i want to go. it’s more like longing for a roadmap to pair with that compass, a more concrete path, the roadmap that everyone seems to have but me. i have a lot of trouble with the phrase you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. more often than not i feel like i’m supposed to be somewhere in northern italy, aperol spritz in hand, sundress billowing in the wind. i’m too old to entertain the you’re-really-the-princess-of-genovia mia thermopolis fantasy, but some part of me clings to that still. the idea that someone will tap my shoulder, heads-up-seven-up style, and say, “oh, don’t worry, you’re in the wrong room. come with me.” and i will gladly pack up my things and go.
maybe it’s being 25, maybe it’s capitalism, maybe it’s living in the south, maybe it’s climate change, maybe it’s [insert any number of pathologies here], maybe it’s the grass is always greener adage ringing true. i don’t mean to sound ungrateful. i don’t think there’s a one-size-fits-all solution. maybe the solution is just maturity. maybe these are the last wishes of an undeveloped frontal lobe croaking its dying breath. if i could cut out the parts of my life that bring me joy-- my friends, my family, a 1BR rent that i can actually afford, a favorite restaurant or bookstore too-- and decoupage them onto another backdrop, i would. (if any wealthy benefactors are reading this and would like to invest in building a walkable community for me and all the people i love and all the people they love, please reach out.)
what is the mandorla i want to radiate? how would a medieval painter, given maybe thirty years to live and one chance to go Hard As Fuck in an illuminated manuscript or a church window, depict my aura, my way of living, my impact? maybe that question holds the solution.
i’ll close my eyes, indulge myself in this woo-woo meditation exercise, if only for a moment. envision a glowing light around myself. it wavers, an unsure glimmer-- sometimes it’s so dim i can barely make it out, a flickering flame-- but it’s there. shining. growing stronger. i think. maybe i shouldn’t call myself woowoo. if i am seeking messages from the universe / God / my guides / my angels / Freddie Mercury who art in heaven, the delivery should be irrelevant, i suppose.
i worry if i lean in, want more, do the woo-woo thing, dream bigger, i’ll be too delusional. but all the girls on my fyp are telling me i should be delusional. more importantly, my friend bryn told me recently that hope is not delusional. so maybe what i mean to say is i hope. i have hope. hope that there is something bigger than this. a mandorla of meaning. not just for me, but for everyone, for you, for us.
❤️❤️❤️❤️
Delulu is the solulu 😇