I don't even change my clothes. I just head out to make it there in time.

It's close to the center of town, so I don't have to walk far.

I pay my entrance fee and walk in.

There are hardly any visitors.

The chapel's small and attached to a monastery.

The building itself is tall, but nothing terribly special.

But suddenly I see it.

Every inch of wall, floor to ceiling,

is covered with a painted narrative cycle.

The first thing I notice is the stillness.

I can't even hear my sneakers on the stone floor.

It's cool inside.

Then the glow.

The whole room, even the arched ceiling,

glows lapis blue from the paint.

Inside this room, my body stills, too. I'm in need of sanctuary, and here it is.

It feels safe, sacred.

It lets me emotionally and intellectually clear my mind

so that I can really look at the frescoes.

I'm hardly breathing.

My heart rate slows.

I can feel my mouth open as I take in the room. Kewin Feldman grew up in a military family, and her childhood memories are dominated by visits to art

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