In the sacred presence of Perseus, everything is touched by this gentle soul. Each week he accompanies the Silver Sage, offering comfort in this most vulnerable space. Patient and still on her gracious lap, his faint snores mingle with the poetry and pens. He is a mindful messenger, a quiet muse for messy hearts flowing onto the page. He is a silent observer of weekly courage, a witness to a circle of wise women and words.
In between rounds at the writing table, Perseus rests in a patch of sun. And I'm struck by the fact that this isn't a quest. He isn't searching for something bright. This space is already illuminated by the brightest bringers of light. This table consecrated for writing a river. This gentle soul in charcoal fur. These brave women who show up week after week. This space dedicated to saying the truest things. All of it lit by the prayers of one who may not even know what prayer is. But it doesn't matter. What matters is the heart that sends those prayers, a heart that holds this generous space. What matters is having a patch of sun, a place of communion with warmth and light.