Yesterday, a new Pope was chosen.

For a moment, the bells rang, and the sky filled with white breath —

smoke rising like a prayer across rooftops that have seen centuries of waiting.

They named him Leo the Fourteenth.

But before he spoke, there was silence.

And in that silence, I imagined the weight settling on his shoulders —

the weight of history, of souls, of choices yet to be made.

In Equilibria, there’s a tree called the Witness Cedar.

It grows on the edge of the Whispering Bluffs,

where winds carry voices from across the valley below.

The Keepers say the tree listens.

And once every generation, someone climbs to carve a single word into its bark —

a choice meant to guide those who come after.

Some words are bold: Justice. Courage. Flame.

Others are soft: Listen. Mourn. Begin.

The new Pope, they say, was once a quiet man who walked with villagers in Peru.

Now he walks into the center of a world that waits to be answered.

I wonder what word he’ll carve.

And I wonder, too, what words we are all carving —

in how we lead, in what we bless, in who we stand beside.

Because choosing isn’t always about power.

Sometimes, it’s about knowing that someone will follow your footsteps

and trying, gently, to leave the ground more whole than you found it.

If we could carve only one word into the world right now,

what would we choose —

and who would it carry?