The limits of my language mean the limits of my world -Ludwig Wittgenstein

The other day, while out on my mid-morning walk, I visited my local church. I find mid-morning to be the most ideal time to visit church because it’s quite quiet and I experience a different level of reverence and reflection. There’s a still silence that is filled with spirit, touched by the mystic, I suppose, and, normally, I’m by myself which also tends to elevate the visit. It’s as though I get all of the Saints' attention, just for Tinamarie. My very own private one on one chat with God and his close workers. Normally, I enter and make a stop to pray with my big 3.

1) St. Therese of Lisieux
2) Virgin of Guadalupe
3) St. Anthony

St. Therese of Lisieux, also known as “the little flower,” is the patron saint of missions. Virgin Guadalupe is the patroness of Mexico, and the symbol of motherhood and social justice. Finally, St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things and the miracle maker. St. Anthony was always present in our childhood home in Brooklyn. He could be found on keychains, bookmarks, lamps, picture frames, candles, nightlights - you name it - he was watching over our house. I’m pretty sure it helped in a lot of ways, well, in retrospect.

In case my saint list didn’t tip you off, I grew up in a fairly Italian Catholic home. A home where my grandmother's bed post was clad in rosary beads; the tops of her dresser and armoire lined with large and tiny saint statues alike. When I was a kid it was somewhat spooky to walk through my grandma's bedroom, complete with a glow in the dark Jesus Christ bust and a litany of large, standing saints - all of whom I felt were staring directly at me. It was overwhelming to walk through this space. There were no overhead lights in her bedroom, only the lamp on her nightstand which, in order to turn on, I had to pass the bureau where there was a dark and looming gap of space. The dark and looming gap of space where my brother might be hiding to scare me. Instead of daring to turn on the lamp, I slowly walked in the dim light of JC and the saints. Through my grandma's bedroom door there were 16 stairs that led to our tiny apartment. In that hallway there was a light and I’d run for it then go back and close her door. We were all connected, everyone in the house, by a door, a flight of stairs and a room full of saints.

When I was a child, just about every single Sunday, I went to church with my grandmother and family. That is until my brother and I were left to our own devices to get to church, but that’s a separate story. We went to Italian mass where I understood little but still felt a connection to holiness and otherness. On Monday’s at school our teacher would often ask us what we did over the weekend. One day I bravely raised my hand and answered “Well, I went to Italy!” She replied, “You went to Italy, Tina? And you’re in school today?” I proudly remarked “Yes, Italy is on Rockaway Parkway.” She laughed. I was at Italian mass but believed I went to Italy. No plane needed, no one spoke English, and pasta was served immediately afterwards. My childhood logic seemed spot on, even today, as I write this. I smiled at my teacher, but remembered feeling sad when I learned the truth - that I wasn’t in Italy. But she couldn’t take away what I also felt in those moments of sharing signs of peace. Because that was the part I loved most, and it still is.

Along with day trips to Italy on Sunday’s, at age 9, my grandmother took me on my first road trip. Together, we hopped on a Greyhound bus with our parish to visit the Basilica in Washington, DC. Grandma packed extra big eggplant sandwiches, stuffed with cheese, basil and sauce, in addition to juice boxes. It was a real treat to have an eggplant sandwich made by my grandma, let alone to eat this eggplant sandwich in the presence of God. You know, in a church basement and not just in our own basement in Brooklyn with with saint statues staring at me through the curio. We ate the eggplant sandwiches in the Basilica cafeteria; unwrapping them from the foil they were warm, a little mushy, the bread wet with olive oil, the mozzarella soft and creamy. It was a memorable day, not only because of those eggplant sandwiches I still fantasize about 32 years later, but because I remember feeling excited and also confused about God, his power, saints and their stories. I was also surprised and excited that food could taste even more delicious in the presence of a spiritual moment. Way more delicious than when I was sneaking sandwiches into my bedroom and eating them alone in the middle of the night. That day I was connected to my grandmother in a new way aside from sewing Barbie clothes with her tablecloth and linen scarps. This was bigger. She held my hand.

Now, at 43, stepping into church isn’t about being a religious Catholic. What I’ve learned is that church is simply a place that I go to feel connected to myself and to something bigger than me. Church is a place to rest, sit and feel the presence of something so great, so large, and ineffable that I feel covered in Grace when I enter. When I step on my yoga mat and my teacher guides us in a mantra or meditation, I feel the same exact way. Connected. Protected. Like I’m going to be ok. And, to be wholly honest, I really have no idea how everything will be ok, but in both instances I receive a quiet nod from spirit, God, the universe, the angels and saints (whoever you want to name here; source) that everything is and will be as it should. I imagine it’s called blind faith for a reason.

I was sitting in my local Astoria church admiring the poinsettia plants, after my talk with the big 3, when the local priest, Father Vincent, saw me. He slowly walked over to me as I prayed, placing his hand on my forehead and repeating, “May almighty God bless you.” I began to cry. I was 9, again. The air thick with hope, the smell of warm eggplant sandwiches and a rush of more memories rapidly flashing through my mind. With the touch of his hand came time travel to masses attended with my brother Tommy, ones where people would have hands laid on them and they’d sometimes fall down or start walking again when they hadn’t walked in years. Sometimes people would just cry. Cry in a way that I had never seen as a child. It was an unbelievable sight to see adults in wheelchairs walk, to see grown men and women cry in such a way that they were releasing everything they had ever held inside; their pain, their trauma, their hope, their love, their lives. At this point in life I’ve had a few of these moments where I’ve cried uncontrollably in church, in yoga and even in my bed while alone in the middle of the night. A powerful energy moving inside of the soul and physical body, one named spirit. I finally understand.

Admittedly, it’s been difficult for me to write about spirituality because I know it’s controversial. But I come in peace to say that it’s beautiful to feel guided. To feel held and not alone. I don’t consider myself saved, or any religious term per se, but connecting to spirit, God and the universe has helped me see and think more clearly. It’s helped me continually and consistently make better decisions that are more aligned in my life. It’s comforting to have faith and to know the pressure isn’t fully on me to create my life or chase the desires of my ego - but to get quiet with my heart and to trust in a larger force. These are my thoughts lately. This belief helping me be brave enough to write about faith and the miracles that have happened throughout my life. Miracles I only recognized two years ago when I pressed pause on my life, when I decided to connect to myself and God instead of chasing and planning.

What I have experienced in my life and as of late are miracles far greater than doing backbends and side planks, because I never thought I’d see those movements happen either, but my heart continues to be open to miracles and the timing intended for my life instead of being sad or fighting forward. I’m being led - and what a truly magical and mysterious feeling that is to simply believe. What a truly magical and mysterious feeling it is to say “I trust my life. I trust my heart. I am on my way. I trust you (insert source bigger than yourself).”

My brother and I thought the saints would one day talk back to us while we passed through my grandmother’s bedroom. I don't think I’ve told him that the saints talk to me now, even when I’m not in church on a weekday mid-morning. I’m relieved they talk to me now after so much time spent in the hollow silence of my own mind; pushing my life forward until I hurt. Easeful and patient, they’re guiding me. I only realized today that they were really there all along.

Expressions of Faith