Stained Glass Window to my Soul.

I am oddly drawn to the imagery of stained glass. It's this intricate puzzle only makes sense when light shines through it. Even if you put all the pieces together perfectly, without light, it's not alive, and it's not fufilling it's purpose. But when the light hits it...

I know nothing about life; I'm 22, jobless, aimless and unsure of anything, dirty, sweaty and tired from riding in a bus all day. Growing numb from all the sights and the barrage on the senses that is a 17-day whirlwind tour of Europe. I find myself in a Cathedral in France. I find myself struck.

I find myself.

I gaze up at the most beautiful stained glass windows I've ever seen, in a blue that makes my breath catch in my chest and tears come to my eyes, I tiptoe around afraid that if I made a wrong move, they would all come crashing down around me. Images of Jesus and Mary and every biblical story that I had been just recently inhaling. I was jealous of the citizens of the town. I bought a thousand postcards and took pictures that did no justice. I brought the pieces home with me and framed them. Right now they are in my bathroom, only because they don't make wallpaper with those images, or else I'd wrap the entire house with it inside and out. Just today I found out that they are Chagall's.

It's was the first piece of art that I loved. I loved how it made me feel, I loved that it was of Christ, I loved that it felt like it was mine. Now that I know more about Chagall, it makes it even more special. He was a devoted family man, who smeared his happiness all over canvases and glass, in the form of a Savior and of violin playing goats.

For my birthday my roomate sara bought me a mini stained glass window that I love. It turned out to be a Chagall too. This I recieved before I went to Europe.

Interesting, I thought, that all of the things that struck my eyes and heart as beautiful turned out to be from the same creator.

One that seems to know just what I need.