My May-December (breathing-cremated) relationship a.k.a. the spiritual side of things

It goes like this: while praying, I often worry I’m just talking to the chipped paint on my ceiling. Also, I have a habit of starting prayers with, “I know you’re dealing with Africa and the Middle East right now. I know there are a billion orphans and refugees who need you more than I do, but if you’re not too tired at the end of the day, could you send some positive energy my way?” And then I feel really guilty about asking for anything when there are women in the Congo who need divine grace, if it exists, just to survive another day. Then I pray for them. Anyways, lets not talk about religion because it’s GLARINGLY obvious I don’t know what I’m talking about. Suffice it to say, in my lowest times I tend to turn to Frida. Frida has always helped in a tangible, immediate way like any good guru or role model. I often find myself pondering, “what would Frida do?” (WWFD bracelets anyone?)

            It all became clear this past March. I turned 23 and, having spent my entire previous 22^nd year failing miserably at life (bad break-up, no dates, no job, no school), I needed to escape. New York City was the closest, cheapest option. When in NYC, the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) is always at the top of my sightseeing list. This is due to a combination of factors:

1.    

1.  1. I’m insanely introverted and would rather spend time with paintings than people.

2.     2. It sounds so Disney-esque, but I always feel my heart swell when I look at those famous paintings. I fill up with happiness. It charges my batteries.

3.     3.They have a nice garden. Out back. It’s very Edward Scissorhands. I highly recommend it.

I hadn’t been to MOMA since back in my pre-Frida days. I was looking at the Van Gogh’s and Picasso’s when I wandered into this little room in the bowels of the museum. I could see one big, white wall full of Diego’s big, bright paintings. Then, I turned around and… There. She. Was.

I burst into tears. It was something about the fact that their paintings not only shared a room, they faced each other. It was something about the contrast between Diego’s huge, overpowering paintings and Frida’s quiet, small, personal portraits. Mostly, it was the element of surprise. I didn’t know she would be there. It was like turning a corner and seeing a friend and then collapsing into her arms in your hour of need. It was the first time I’d ever seen her paintings in person. Frida’s “Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair” and “Fulang-Chang and I” were more beautiful than I possibly could have imagined. I left feeling calm and centered. It was the closest thing to a spiritual experience I’ve ever had.