I want to be priest of the Church of Frida. Where the homilies will be given in poems, the communion wafers will be pyramids of dark chocolate dusted in cinnamon, and the wine will always be aged tempranillo.
The altar will be covered in orchids and the stained glass will be paintings by Frida.
It will be a place where women are priests, men are dancers, and the children praise God with hand drums and gourd rattles.
When the name of the Holy is uttered, whether in exaltation or in whispered longing, She will be called Tonantzín, Coatlicue, Xochiquetzal, Toci, Mother, Grandmother, Wild Woman, Serpent Goddess. She will be Our Lady.
The Spirit of Frida will haunt the halls, make incense rise, scent the sacristy with roses, and cause bells to ring.
In the mornings she will be heard laughing and telling stories. In the evenings she will be seen lighting candles and dancing in the garden.
One Sunday a month a new Kahlo painting will be left at the church doors with a note, “Truth is Love. Frida.” All the Sundays in between bottles of tequila will appear tied with red and green ribbon nestled in piles of rose blossoms. On each bottle will be a note, “See that Our Lady gets some. ~F.”
If you listen closely, you will hear her singing. Songs that last through the night. Songs that could be coming from the stars. Songs that echo in your body and leave you longing for God, weeping on your knees in the dirt.
When you sleep she reaches into your chest, takes out your heart, drums a song on its soft flesh and replaces it before morning.
This aching for God will not stop. She will keep you like this for years. The only thing left to do will be to write, paint, and dance.
Yes. I want to be priest of the Church of Frida.