He is sitting with his arms crossed looking off into the distance. His cream colored long coat and shawl drawn up tight against his shoulders and neck. It must be cold. His gaze is soft yet strong. His brow furrowed with slight wrinkles. He is balding by then, his hair thinning yet still long in curls against his chest. I see him in profile only, the photograph of him taken outdoors in golden light, a clump of autumn foliage against him. Atop his mountain. Silent. Silent for decades. And yet, what he did with that silence is a masterclass in speaking volumes about creating peace in the world.
Venus was rising in the south sky with the crescent moon nearby. The desert was cool with flickers from the fire being lit for our circle. It was a crisp March night in Joshua Tree. One year of initiations, one year of sacred fires, one year of ceremonies that allowed us to soar with the star nations and the winged ones.