Carlos Fentanes

Conversations with Virgin Mary

“I received a response from the David Suzuki Foundation,” I said. “And they’re not good news.”

I pulled the message from my phone and read it aloud.

“Hi,
Thank you for taking the time to share your proposal and the supporting research. We appreciate you reaching out to the Foundation with such a well-considered submission.

At this time, our team is at capacity and unable to take on new advocacy directions, review external proposals, or provide guidance or support on legislative initiatives. Our current priorities and commitments require us to stay focused on a defined set of projects, and we aren’t in a position to explore additional collaboration or discussion.

That said, we appreciate your commitment to public health and sustainable transportation, and we thank you for your engagement on an issue that affects so many communities across Canada.

Wishing you all the best as you continue your efforts.

Warm regards,
Nitya.”

I put the phone down.

“So the proposal didn’t pass the first screening,” I said. “But the Suzuki Foundation isn’t the only door. I also sent the proposal directly to our Conservative MP, Jacob Mantle.”

Jorge raised an eyebrow.

“I realized something here,” I continued. “Your bill is actually a trap for conservatives. Under Pierre Poilievre, the party is pushing oil. Their strongest support is in Alberta, and Alberta’s wealth sits under oil reserves. They’ve spent years minimizing climate change and greenhouse gases.”

I paused.

“But your bill doesn’t even touch that debate. It focuses on diesel exposure and public health. Still, it puts them in an uncomfortable position.”

Jorge nodded slowly.

“So I thought about a third road,” I said. “The Canadian Urban Transit Association. CUTA works directly with transit systems that use diesel buses. Their drivers are exposed to the gases every day. They have leverage when it comes to policy discussions.”

“So I sent them the proposal too.”

I shrugged.

“I’m applying the same principle I use for my art submissions. There must be a way forward. The problem is that I don’t know which path is the right one yet. So I’m trying to be resourceful.”

Jorge looked at me with curiosity and disbelief.

“All this effort,” he said, “for a bill that will almost certainly never pass the first reading in Parliament?”

He smiled.

“It reminds me of the labyrinth of Minos. Perhaps we should build wings and attach them with wax. Just remember not to fly too close to the sun.”

He said this while brewing something in a small glass pot. The air slowly filled with a light floral smell.

“What are you preparing this time?” I asked.

“Sakura tea,” he said. “Cherry blossom flowers. Very delicate. It smells like spring.”

He poured the hot water over a handful of pale petals.

“You need a little honey,” he added, handing me a small jar filled with a cloudy amber liquid.

“Is this honey?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “A friend collected it. It hasn’t been clarified yet. There’s still a bit of wax inside. That changes the flavor.”

I dipped a spoon into the jar and tasted it.

“Yes,” I said. “The wax definitely changes it. It’s less sweet.”

Jorge laughed.

“Speaking of wax,” he said, “I have a letter from the Virgin Mary about wax.”

He disappeared into the back of the house, where his office was. The minutes stretched longer than they should have. Finally he returned, holding a folded sheet of paper.

“I found it,” he said.

He handed it to me.

---

Wednesday, July 28^th

Waxing a wooden floor is a simple task, but it requires attention.

The mop must move in two directions only: forward and back, forward and back, always following the grain of the wood. Not too soft, not with excessive pressure. Just enough force to spread the wax across the surface.

When the movement is correct, the mop slides easily. The cloth moves smoothly and the wax settles into the wood. Slowly the floor begins to shine.

But if the mop moves across the grain, something different happens. The movement becomes heavier. The cloth catches small edges in the wood. There is resistance, an unnatural resistance, as if the floor itself were objecting.

Anyone who has waxed a wooden floor knows this sensation.

The mop begins to guide the hands. It shows the direction of the grain. It suggests the correct path: back and forth, back and forth.

If you insist on moving in another direction, the results appear quickly. Uneven wax. Marks. Small scratches. Areas where the shine disappears.

You can move the mop that way. Nothing stops you.

But the consequences remain on the floor.

Life is often similar.

There is usually a grain in the wood, a direction that already exists before you arrive. Many people try to force the mop across it. They push harder, believing that strength will solve the problem.

But strength rarely changes the grain.

Understanding it does.

With practice, the movement becomes easier. The hands learn the rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slowly the person waxing the floor discovers small adjustments, small variations. A way to follow the grain while still leaving a personal mark on the work.

Skill appears gradually.

Your life, at this moment, resembles that floor.

You are trying to move the mop in another direction.

Change does not happen by force. Change happens when you first understand the grain in the wood.

Your task this week is simple.

Wax the floor.

Move slowly. Pay attention to each stroke. Follow the grain and observe the resistance. Learn the rhythm of the work.

When you finally recognize the direction of the wood, a messenger will arrive.

You will recognize it immediately.

It will appear in the form of grain.

Wood grain.

And you will know the floor is ready.

---

After I finished reading the letter, Jorge looked at me again.

“So,” he said, “did you do your homework? What did you cook that you disliked when you were a child?”

He was referring to the previous letter from the Virgin Mary—the task of cooking something I hated as a child.

“I did,” I said. “My mom always said I was a picky eater. I don’t remember it that way, but I do remember being slow at the table. It always took me longer than my siblings to finish my plate. One thing I truly disliked was cauliflower soup. I hated the consistency, the smell, even the color. Something about it just didn’t work for me.”

I took another sip of tea.

“So I went to the supermarket and bought a cauliflower. Then I searched online for a recipe. I found one for cauliflower nuggets with cheddar cheese and bread crumbs. Completely different texture, completely different smell. It looked good, and it tasted good.”

I smiled.

“That was all I needed to try cauliflower again. And it worked.”

Jorge nodded with satisfaction.

“Good,” he said. “That’s the perfect example of wrapping something unfamiliar with something familiar.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“And? Did the messenger arrive? The good news by mail?”

“Well… yes and no,” I said. “I received the response from the David Suzuki Foundation. Another rejection.”

Jorge didn’t react.

“But I also received another email,” I continued. “I was accepted into the Annual Juried Exhibition at the Latcham Art Centre in Stouffville. I submitted two pieces and both were accepted. The show is being curated by the director of General Hardware Contemporary in Toronto.”

Jorge smiled.

“You see?” he said. “Statistics never fail. Follow the grain. Not too soft, not too much pressure. Back and forth. Back and forth.”

He made a small gesture with his hand, imitating the motion of the mop.

“Keep doing it until the movement becomes natural. Then the result arrives.”

I took another sip of the Sakura tea. Even dissolved in the hot water, I could still taste the faint flavor of wax from the honey.

“How can you compare waxing a floor with making art and being accepted into a show?” I asked. “There’s no relationship.”

Jorge looked at me calmly.

“There is more connection than you think,” he said. “Everything is connected. The Virgin Mary sent me to that waiting room so I could meet you. Don’t you see?”

He lifted his cup.

“Everything is connected.”

Then he smiled.

“Don’t question it too much,” he said. “Just follow the grain.”