Weeks later I set out for the Sahara, seeking solitude and answers. I travel by bus and truck, across savannah and dust plains. Around me, the land seems ancient and patient. At twilight I arrive at a remote Tuareg encampment on the desert's edge. Campfires burn and warriors greet me with cautious eyes. They see the city in my face and the burden in my stance.
Under an orange sunset I wander the dunes. Sand ripples like a golden ocean. My footprints fill with wind as soon as I make them. At night the sky is a jeweled bowl, Orion's belt glaring overhead. I feel both swallowed by the desert and strangely at home. A full moon rises white and low. In its light I find a quiet place to sit. I speak softly into the wind: "My ancestors walked these sands. Speak to me." An owl hoots twice. I have no answer, but the dunes themselves seem to pulse, almost sympathetic.
Over the next days I scout. I find a plateau ringed by sacred rock, where a lone acacia offers shade. I kneel on the bare stone and rest. In that silence, memories of my dream's fractured sky return. I carefully mark patterns in the sand—circles and spirals, cross-lines mimicking constellations. Each night I dream of alignment and repair. I draw a final circle in sand at the point of dawn and whisper a vow: "I will guard the balance." The sun crests above the dunes like a watchful eye.