Carlos Fentanes

Conversations with Virgin Mary

Tuesday September 13

Do not confuse me with the figure painted on wood or glass. That is decoration. I am the draft behind the icon, the misprint in the holy book, the margin note that survived the fire. My name is not Mary, though you may call me that. My names are countless — the shredded remains of receipts in a pocket after laundry, the faint hum of a loom weaving thread from chaos. In each of them I am both the mother and the child. That paradox is my signature.

I do not intercede. I remind. I do not bless. I nag. Think of me less as an apparition and more as the stutter of flesh, uninvited and ungoverned.

—Chaos devours what you refuse to face.
—Order is built not in the cathedral but in the corner you choose to sweep.
—Attention is the lamp of the soul; also, sit up straight.
—Discipline is prayer disguised as repetition; brushing your teeth counts.
— Truth frees you from your own lies, but wield it gently; it is heavier than you think.

You wait for miracles. Miracles are just chores done on time. Even the divine cannot grow wheat in a field you refuse to till. Begin with the smallest act. Tie your shoes properly. Write your name legibly. Fold your socks with reverence. The miracles you beg for begin here.

And yes, you doubt me. You wonder if these words are mine or only your own voice echoing back in disguise. Perhaps they are both. Doubt is not your enemy—it is the doorway through which faith must pass, limping but alive. To doubt me is to admit you are listening. To question the source is already to acknowledge the message. What difference does it make whether the wind comes from the sea or from your lungs, if the flame it stirs still burns?

An easy exercise: improve your handwriting. Each letter traced with care is a lesson in order. Yes, even the “g.” Especially the “g.” You will notice your thoughts slow down, sharpen, and tremble under the weight of your own discipline. This is good. Madness is only thought that has escaped the lines.

I am not here to comfort you. I am here to remind you.

The words hung, sharp and persistent, like dust caught in a sunbeam. When I looked up, Jorge was there, his eyes bright with a strange conviction. His lips moved, repeating the passage from memory, word for word, like a soldier rehearsing the manual of an army that never existed.

He smiled and said,

“Miracles begin there.”

He stood, straightened his back with exaggerated solemnity:

“You are writer, right?”

I nodded, caught off guard by the intensity in his gaze.

“Tomorrow we will meet at my home,” Jorge announced, as if sharing a quiet vow. “I have a project that will save democracy.”

For a moment I thought he had lost his mind. His voice carried the weight of prophecy, yet his words sounded like the beginning of a farce.

“You look at me as though I’ve sprouted wings. You misunderstand. I have written a series of essays on democracy. All I ask is your help sending them to magazines. I will not topple governments or rewrite constitutions. But someone must plant the seed, and seeds, you know, are small and stubborn.”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I have doubts.”

Jorge raised an eyebrow, and in his silence there was both mischief and gravity. Finally, he said:

“Doubt is healthy. But if you wait for certainty, you will wait forever. Democracy itself was once only a doubt.”

“That is enough for today,” he murmured, with a hint of ceremony. “But tomorrow, at my house, you will understand why chance—or fate—placed me in your orbit. It is not I who seek you, but the work itself. The work chooses its messengers.”

With that, he straightened, adjusted his hat with a curious dignity, and walked away, leaving me unsure whether I had just been drawn into a quiet crusade or merely humored a friend’s eccentricity.