What the Crow Told Me
Inspiration from above
Why does a fully-lapsed Catholic, having been kicked out of Catholic school three times before the age of twelve, dedicate herself to sculpting a near-life-sized bronze bust of Pope Francis? It took me two years and several thousand dollars to accomplish the task. Folks have asked what possessed me to make it, and I've asked myself the same question. I wasn't looking for forgiveness, and as a full-time writer who'd just brought out a new novel ("The Song of Jackass Creek"), I certainly didn't need a project.
It happened like this: I was sitting at a picnic table under the pines in the Plumas National Forest. In front of me, I had a lump of plasticine clay – the kind of clay that never dries and is favored by sculptors who make molds to cast their work. The weather was perfect. A crow swooped from a treetop and flew overhead. I heard the rhythmic rush of its wings making music in the fresh mountain air. It landed on a branch of a Jeffrey Pine and settled in. We sat silently, looking at each other. It was then that a mental image of Pope Francis appeared. I have no idea how or why this vision appeared.
I saw Him smiling softly, compassionately. I thought of how much I liked Him – far more than any of the Popes I'd experienced in my lifetime. Unlike the others, he seemed to be a man from the streets of human experience. Down to earth. He didn't seem caught up in the pomp and prestige of the Papacy or driven by its centuries-long political structure in which so many Popes became quasi-monarchs managed by a powerful Roman Curia. Francis was stepping out on his own terms. It was the first time I could relate to someone anointed with (or burdened by) the title of Holy Father.
Without reason or a plan, I started sculpting. By the end of the afternoon, my Pope's head looked very much like a Neanderthal – which is where humans started out anyway. Not discouraged, the work progressed, and little by little, Francis, successor to the essentially bureaucratic Benedict XVI, began to emerge from the clay. And as the sculpture grew in size and importance, I started to again wonder why I was there pouring my efforts into a Catholic piece of art when my own religious experience had been disappointing. I kept questioning my motivation through the months of sculpting, making the mold, pouring, and working on the wax figure. But it was not until I had the 160 pounds of bronze Pope finished and home with me that I got it.
Pope Francis, for me, transcends Catholicism or any other named religion. He embodies virtues so many of us value most in humanity – kindness, compassion, joy, and courage - qualities I tried to capture in his likeness.
He speaks out, sometimes in opposition to firmly held dictates of the Vatican, and offers hope to those left behind by the Church – the LBGTQ community, for example (though he is obligated to respect the official position of his high-ranking Archbishops). He honors women, and, I believe, were it up to him, Catholic Nuns would achieve their rightful place as Church celebrants. He's made a point of mingling with common people around the world whose beliefs do not align with ancient dictates of the Church. And he publicly recognizes that religious rules are not immutable. In 2017 he said, "There are some rules that are not absolute and that must interpret the signs of the times." I regard him as a practical man who does the most good he can do in the circumstances of his exceptional life.
Little did I know, as a 16-year-old girl stomping loudly out of the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart when the Priest made a pitch for a magazine subscription in his Homily (which I thought ought to be against God's rules), that I'd one day be inspired by a latent Catholic vision. That I'd be unable to write about the Church of my childhood without capitalizing nearly every word pertaining to the Faith – as impatient Nuns in Parochial School taught me.
The title of my Pope Francis sculpture is "Love, Compassion and Joy" and I tried to capture those qualities in both his Holiness the Man and the Lamb he holds (note the unnecessary capitals). I'm now trusting that despite the ardent and noisy exit from the Church of my childhood, Pope Francis would still approve of the person I've become.
Thanks, as always, for your attention. I hope you’re someplace cooler than California or the Southwest this week. And, if you have an idea for a new home for Pope Francis, please let me know. He’d be so much happier in a public space! And I’ll gladly offer a finder’s commission for a successful lead. Thanks for reading Down Darby Lane and for your feedback - it keeps me creative to know that you are with me. Talk to me at darby@darbypatterson.com
Beautiful story, Darby!