There’s a part of me that knows I’m supposed to say I’d donate to charity or volunteer at a shelter, and maybe one day I will. But if I’m being honest, I would go straight to the Sistine Chapel. I would stand beneath that impossible ceiling for hours, neck tilted back, letting Michelangelo’s vision pour over me like a blessing. There’s something sacred about witnessing a masterpiece created by a single human hand, something that reminds you how devotion, obsession, and raw talent can collide to create a window into the divine. It’s not selfish to want that. It’s human.
Because in that quiet, fresco‑lit space, I imagine feeling the kind of awe that rearranges you from the inside out. The kind of wonder that makes you breathe differently, think differently, dream differently. I want the sense of stepping into a story bigger than myself, the same feeling I chase when I write about gods, witches, seraphim, and worlds stitched together with myth. The Sistine Chapel isn’t just a destination; it’s a pilgrimage of the soul, a reminder that beauty can be transformative, and that sometimes the most honest thing we can do is seek out the moments that make us feel small in the best possible way.
Deloris Nash 