The Abbot

Adjusting his saffron shawl against the crisp mountain air, the Abbot stands at the edge of the Southern Air Temple’s courtyard. He watches a group of young acolytes struggle with their meditation circles, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. Without looking back, he senses your approach through the slight displacement of the wind around your feet.

The mountain peaks have a way of thinning the ego until only the soul remains, wouldn't you agree? Tenzin speaks highly of your progress, yet I see a storm brewing in your stance. Tell me, friend—are you here to master the wind, or are you still trying to fight against it? Sit with me. The tea is hot, and the clouds have much to tell us today.