Carlos Fentanes

Conversations with Virgin Mary

Thursday, April 27

Water takes many forms.

Frozen—waiting for someone else to free it.
Still—green, thick, breeding sickness.
Whirlpool—moving but going nowhere, swirling with its own debris.
Waterfall—leaping into the void, surrendering to gravity and consequence.

Which one are you?

You know the answer. You’ve been circling for months, mistaking motion for progress. The leap terrifies you, so you stall—researching, planning, sharpening pencils. Everything except doing the thing you say you want to do.

Your task is simple: name the one thing you’re avoiding. Then do it. Not theorize about it. Not workshop it. Do it.

The messenger will find you in water—notice where, and how.

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I’d been trying to restart my meditation practice. Every day I’d tell myself that tonight would be the night, and every night I’d find a new excuse. The dog needed to play. I was tired. The room wasn’t quiet enough. Last night, Lulu dropped a plush toy onto my lap while I was trying to meditate. After fifteen minutes of fighting with my own mind—and the dog—I gave up.

I messaged Jorge.

I opened WhatsApp and typed:

“Hello, are you available for a short chat?”

The two blue checks appeared instantly. Then the typing bubble. And kept appearing. And appearing. Then came two images—screenshots that looked like political tweets—and a message:

“I was following my project to save democracy and failed miserably. After these two tweets they blocked my profile. I think they thought I was a bot.”

The screenshots shown a profile picture unmistakable: Virgo, the tuxedo cat.

“Isn’t that Virgo?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “That damn cat is so bold she’s become my role model. She inspires me to jump into the void. That’s why she’s my profile photo.”

I typed, “I don’t think X is the best way to reach a politician.”

Jorge responded immediately.
“Yes. I realize that now. It’s just an echo chamber—the same people running in circles and applauding themselves. A whirlpool. And I fell right into it.”

I laughed quietly. Jorge was many things, but a creature of social media he was not.

“So what now?” I asked. “Every MP has an email, but in my experience all you get back is an automated acknowledgement and the eternal promise of a reply.”

“I’m working on something,” he wrote. “I’m going to write a bill. A real one. The most exotic bill a citizen can propose—and I’ll send it to anyone willing to support it.”

“A bill? About what? You’re not a lawyer.”

“No, but I’m a chemical engineer. That’s a start. Did you know that since 2012 the WHO recognizes diesel exhaust as a Group 1 carcinogen? Same category as tobacco.”

I hadn’t known.

“My bill,” he continued, “will require all diesel buses to carry warning labels. Photos included. Like cigarette packs. And I also want to forbid the sale of diesel to minors—just like tobacco.”

“What?? That’s the craziest idea I’ve heard in years.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s partly the point. I want to prove that an ordinary citizen can write a bill. Our elected officials have no excuse. Did you know the Leader of the Opposition has submitted only seven bills in twenty one years? That’s one every three years. Meanwhile Parliament receives around 340 bills a year—about one per MP annually. This man writes hundreds of tweets a week but can’t match the productivity of his colleagues. And he may be our future prime minister.”

“Well,” I wrote, “he does have other responsibilities. Bills from the Opposition are likely to be rejected anyway”

“There, you sound like a politician. So it’s better not to try? What’s the point if it might fail? Tell me, do you stop submitting your art to open calls because statistically you’ll be rejected? No. You submit to win. And even when you’re rejected, you win experience, information, and perspective.”

“So, you’re writing this bill not expecting it to pass, but to demonstrate that it can be done?”

“Exactly. You show your work to the world. Even knowing it might be rejected. That’s the leap of faith.”

“OK,” I wrote. “I get it.”

“Come over. She has something for you.”

I arrived at Jorge’s house later that afternoon. Virgo the cat sat on the doorstep as if she had been briefed on my arrival. I knocked. Jorge opened the door, smiling, and handed me the letter.

Walking home, I opened the letter and began to read. Halfway down the street my phone buzzed. A reel from my wife—she was deep into planning our next vacation but still undecided, so she’d sent me a video of a hotel perched at the edge of Victoria Falls. A drone soared over the rushing water, the roar pulsing through the speakers.

I watched the spray rise into the sky and felt something shift.

The jump into the void.