I saw a photo of the image that I start the following with at Tucson’s 4th Ave Street Fair this weekend. The rest is a kind of thought experiment.

A massive old church door looms in the background. In the foreground is a courtyard dotted with decaying tombstones. A woman in a simple cream colored dress steps barefoot into a frame. She is carrying a heavy suitcase. It is hot, she is sweaty, and she struggles with the weight in her hands She maintains a purposeful movement towards the church.

She stops at the door and drops the suitcase. Dust wafts up from it as if the stone landing hadn’t been trodden on in millenia. Ancient.

From inside the church, the door is opened. We see a man, wearing black robes, in silhouette along with the woman. The man motions with a subtle ease and confidence beckoning her inside.

The woman is a mixture of defiance and trepidation. As she takes her first step an usher scurries to the suitcase and carries it ahead of her, leading her to the pews.

In the pews are other women sitting upright wearing similar dresses. They take no notice of the new arrival. They are in various states of concentration, joy and despair.

The church is dark save for a cold white light streaming through high windows. The massive door closes.

The usher stops at a pew and drops the suitcase. He motions to the woman to sit there.

This is not what the woman expected. She looks at the pews, the women, the light gently touching the faces of the women around her that seems to have palpable form. When she turns back to her guide he’s running away, almost hidden by shadow and in the next instant he is gone.

The man at the door is gone. She is left with living statues and cold light.

The woman sits slowly for lack of any obvious action. As she sits the light from the high windows touches her face.

Her past zooms through her in quick flashes.

Her son in her arms.
Her husband works while she watches tv at night, ever so lightly touching his thigh.
Her mother touches her hand, her father at the table in the background.
Her hand touches a plant, lush and green, almost glowing with life.

The thoughts recede, she has leaned forward, the light from the windows no longer touches her.

She sees a crack, a light in a door.

The woman approaches the door and pauses to look. The man who opened the church door sits at at table. An old wooden bench worn from age and use, scratched, pitted, it is history itself.

He stands and walks to a door at the side of this smaller room. This door is small. It is surrounded by a warm inviting light.

She takes a step. At the pew he suitcase has fallen. Dust settles around it.

She moves to the door. The man turns the knob and opens it.

Inside is warm enveloping light.

The usher is visible now opening the latches on the suitcase.

She steps to the threshold. Her hands touch the walls.

The suitcase opens. It is teeming with with a mass of writhing filaments. Eternal filaments of the tapestry of life unbound.

The gentlest of breezes lifts them into the air. They drift, they float, they flutter. They land on the women in the pews and wake them from their stupor. They glow with life now. They rise and they move to the church door.

The woman with the suitcase steps into the light and disappears.

The women in the church have gathered at the door.Their radiant glow thunders and shakes. The door opens. The man who was the gatekeeper looks on an smiles.

The women push through the church door into the courtyard. Everything is alive with color. A glowing filament dances in the breeze.

The last of the woman moves past the camera.

Everything fades to white.