It had been a great conference. Icons. I had known nothing about them, nothing about how they were used as an aide to worship, nothing about the difference between an icon and an image.
An image, regardless of its beauty or lack of it, is flat, impermeable. An Icon draws the observer through it to glimpse a greater truth. Ah ha. My head understood.
And so, after breakfast, I wandered around the bookstore, unable to take the last step of getting in the car (which was already packed) and beginning the three-hour drive home.
My eye fell on a bunny. An Easter bunny. He was about 6 inches tall, wearing paint-splattered overalls, brushes sticking out of his back pocket, wiping rags in his front pockets. His ears were laid back, his feet pushed straight out in front of him, his eyes glancing warily over his shoulder. In his arms were beautiful Easter eggs, obviously his masterpieces, and NO ONE was going to get them away from him.
He cost $25. I had $30 left, and needed to buy gas and lunch. I picked him up. I put him down. Picked up. Put down. Again. Again. Half an hour later, unable to resist the strange pull, I bought him and laid him on the seat beside me as I drove down the mountain.
Twenty minutes later, it hit me with such a force I had to pull over. I picked the bunny up and stared at it. Sure, he had made all these wonderful things, but unless he put some of them down, there would be no room in his arms for anything more.
My icon. The conference had been a success.
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