Metanoia

I’m not entirely sure what happened when I walked into that room. Maybe I drowned. Maybe I ascended. Maybe a part of me died. Maybe all of me lived. 

Botticelli's Birth of Venus (1482-86)

I can’t tell anyone what to expect when you see it. There’s nothing you can expect, because there’s nothing you can do to expect it. It’s sudden and slow. Like the rush of adrenaline of seeing a tidal wave, but the time slows so the magnitude does not hit till you are too far under the waves. It has life. A soul. The closest to divine without a direct touch from God Himself. Unimaginable beauty existing before yourself. I could hear it breathing. The gentle but consistent rush of waves against grass and sand. A gentle bump of a gilded seashell arriving. The wind, breezing, through hair, skin, flowers, leaves, grass, and waves. Unseen birds singing about the event. Gold lives, shining and weaving like a snake, silent and incomprehensible, lighting every corner. Something so strangely still yet moving. A thing alive, creating things of its own on those who lay eyes on it, yet as still as the corpse of its creator. 

Hm? Oh yes, I’m talking about Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.