Carlos Fentanes

Conversations with Virgin Mary

I returned from Guadalajara and went to see Jorge to wish him a Happy New Year.

The contrast was brutal. Back from Mexico, where light and dust linger in the air, to snow everywhere. The sidewalks were barely walkable, the neighborhood reduced to a narrow path between piles of ice.

I knocked on the door. With this cold, it was understandable that Virgo wasn’t around. I missed that goddamn cat—mysterious, observant, with a gaze that always felt like she understood every conversation, even the ones not meant for her.

Jorge opened the door and invited me in. I took off my jacket, my boots, my toque. He led me to the kitchen, where something was heating in an old kettle on the stove. The smell reminded me of dry leaves, of that part of the market where herbs and spices are sold.

“What are you preparing?” I asked.

“This is an old remedy from my grandmother,” he said. “An infusion with cinnamon, dill seeds, chamomile. She used to finish it with honey and cognac. She said it was good for colds, but I use it for almost everything. Sometimes all you really need is for someone to take care of you for a couple of hours.”

The kettle began to whistle. Jorge turned off the stove, grabbed it with a heat glove, and poured the infusion into two blue Willow porcelain cups. Then he added honey, took a bottle of Rémy Martin XO, and poured a spoonful into each cup.

The whole process felt less practical than ceremonial.

“I have to ask,” I said. “Why do all this like it’s the nineteenth century? Wouldn’t it be easier to use an electric kettle and prepare everything at once?”

“I do it as a meditation,” he replied. “I need a special kettle, special cups. That way my thoughts don’t wander. I give this moment importance. The remedy isn’t only what’s in the infusion—it’s what your mind is doing while you drink it. Think of the Japanese tea ceremony. It’s not about the tea, but about being present, about honoring those who came before you. Now drink—but be careful, it’s hot.”

When we finished this small ritual, he asked, “How was your trip?”

“It was enlightening,” I said. “My goal was to stay with my mother and let her talk. I was just an observer. What I saw made me understand the Virgin Mary letters better.”

Jorge listened without interrupting.

“I noticed changes in her health that made me question the role of mindset. She can go from being in pain to active—cooking, walking—in seconds. Sometimes I didn’t notice her Parkinson’s at all.”

I continued. “Depending on what she was talking about, or even who was present, she could shift from healthy to ill and back again within minutes. Since my father passed away, her movement has improved. She can walk now. She even goes up and down the stairs. Yesterday she told me she’s no longer using her walker—she uses a cane instead.”

“She says it’s because of a new doctor,” I added. “For me, it’s her mood. The treatment feels like Dumbo’s feather—but if it helps her, that’s enough.”

“I’m glad she’s better,” Jorge said. “Did you talk to her about the Virgin Mary letters?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think she’d believe me. Or even try to understand. It would be like explaining a train to an eighteenth-century peasant. She wouldn’t get it.”

“That’s an interesting comparison,” Jorge said. “Let me find a letter about that.”

He disappeared into another room and came back with an archive box, the kind you see in old TV shows like Cold Case. Inside were thousands of letters—not just the handful he usually kept together when I visited.

He flipped through folders carefully, then stopped.

“Here,” he said, handing me one.

Friday, April 18

It is time to speak to you about the best way to travel.

Have you ever been aboard a bullet train?

Everyone should experience such a journey at least once in their lifetime. Traveling at speeds of up to 320 km/h, it is secure, punctual, and fast. The seats are comfortable, there is space for luggage, beverages are served, and the ride is smooth. A trip from Tokyo to Osaka—515 kilometers, roughly the distance between New York City and Boston—takes only two and a half hours. In contrast, trains between New York and Boston can take up to four hours to reach their destination.

And the price? Practically the same. Around US$120 for a regular seat, US$175 for first class.

So why would anyone choose a slower, noisier, less efficient train when a faster, cleaner, and more punctual one costs the same?

Because you live in Toronto—or New York, or almost any city in North America—and there are no bullet trains there.

Sometimes you must arrange your life not around what is best, but around what is available. Not around what logic would choose, but around what exists.

You already live better than your grandparents ever did. You have better transportation, better food, more variety, better education, and better healthcare. Life expectancy has increased, and with it, quality of life.

If you think carefully, I can tell you something even more surprising: you live better than the last king of France. One of the most powerful men of his time—and yet you surpass him in almost everything. A better bed. Better meals. Better clothes. Better access to information. Better medicine. Better ways of traveling. You name it.

Progress has always been part of human life—from the cave to the city, from fire to electricity—but understand this: you are not finished. You are not even halfway there. Progress will accelerate in ways you cannot yet imagine, and you will be part of a generation that lives differently than any before it.

I observe you from another plane, from a more advanced dimension. And sometimes I watch you do things that make no sense from where I stand—like choosing a regular train when a bullet train exists. From my perspective, the choice is obvious. From yours, it is impossible. There is no bullet train where you live.

This is why I speak to you in metaphors drawn from your daily life. How can I explain things you are not yet prepared to hear? How can I tell you that your thoughts matter, when you have spent your entire life immersed in outdated concepts, outdated ways of understanding reality?

I can say it this way: I am traveling on a bullet train, while you are still relying on a diesel engine.

When I tell you that healing is possible through a change of mindset, it is because I have seen it before. Again and again.

Release your old mental settings.
Let go of what you believe is fixed.
And allow yourself to move forward with me.

For this week, I ask you to try something simple.

Choose something you know well—something you do every day. It may be part of your work, or something ordinary that feels obvious to you. Try to explain it, slowly and in detail, to someone close to you, using only simple words.

You will notice how difficult it can be to find the right word, the right example, the right image. This difficulty is important. Pay attention to it.

I will send you another messenger later this week, after you have completed this small exercise. It will be simple as well. And yes—it will involve trains.
Be prepared.

I finished the letter and drank the rest of the infusion. Some phrases stayed with me: Explain it slowly and in detail. I am traveling on a bullet train, while you are still relying on a diesel engine.

What did that really mean?

I asked Jorge about the task, and then I remembered something I had seen on TikTok.

“I saw a reel,” I told him, “of a young woman walking through MoMA in New York. She was saying, This is not art. There’s no beauty in modern art, while posing in front of an Yves Klein blue painting. Then the narrator or the collector commented: Please, somebody explain her.”

I tried to describe her tone, her certainty.

“How do you explain Modern Art to someone who is not open to the experience of Modern Art?” I asked. “I started thinking about taste—about food. Strong flavors. Wine. Cheese.”

I continued. “When you’re young and unfamiliar with those flavors—say, Camembert—you don’t even want to try them. It smells rotten. The texture is strange, inconsistent, like it’s melting. Nothing holds its shape. You taste it and want to spit it out. You think: how can anyone with taste admire something like this?”

I paused, looking into the blue reflections left in my cup.

“But then you grow older. You try more food. Slowly, you form your own taste. You begin to curate meals. And one day you choose Camembert or Roquefort, strong Dijon mustard, an old wine—and you realize something has changed. What once felt pretentious and inedible has become a delicacy.”

“That’s how I would explain modern art to someone new,” I said. “Not by explaining what it means or what the artist wanted to say—but by inviting them to taste. To spend time. To let their criteria form.”

Jorge looked at me carefully. He was listening.

“That’s exactly how you should explain things,” he said. “Using common experiences—like cheese—that everyone understands. If you start talking about semiotics, or Foucault, or Eco, you’ll lose her immediately. But food makes it shareable.” He smiled. “Good. You’re growing.”

That moment—with Yves Klein, with that TikTok reel—brought me closer to the Virgin Mary’s letter. To her problem of explaining something unfamiliar using the simplest words possible.

I think there is something inside these doggone letters. Something that is not trying to convince, but to translate.