Here I am; listening to music and not quite painting; dreaming of Oscar Romero, of John the Apostle, of Mary Magdalen. Looking at as many images as I can, to find the right one to use. This can take far longer than putting paint onto canvas.
I think probably after being Charlie’s mum the best thing I can do is write, but finding words for what really needs to be written is not easy; there seem to be none that quite match. English becomes a second language to silence, and inadequate for everything I would want to say, even if there were anyone to hear. The only adequate language is silence; sitting and being with God in another place; knowing that he can hear what cannot be said.
Perhaps this image expresses this more clearly. The pain is no less real than in any other crucifixion; the difference is in containment; quiescence. Perhaps even peace. This silent Christ does not spill himself all over other people. This is the Christ we become; this is our Rood.
Perhaps in becoming this person we discover our own identity; in accomplishing what nobody else can.