What is a sage?

This is the question with which I arrive here, in the valley of the moon. JK died here, on this day, thirty nine years ago.

I blast through the great Central Valley at unsafe velocity. I can’t help it. I marvel at the vastness of the valley before me. I marvel at the Diablo hills to my west, swarming with winter green grass, dotted with cows euphoric for fresh ruminations. I marvel at the distant Sierras to the east, snowcaps distinctly visible through the rain-cleansed air. I marvel at the vastness of humanity that refined the earth into this exoskeleton of metal and glass and rubber, in which I now fly at mercilessly high speed. I marvel at the hands who guided the machines who ground the raw earth into roadways of asphalt and concrete, and constructed my companion the aqueduct, now to my east, sometimes to the west. We dance together, all of us, evaporating water and carbon dioxide, as we descend toward the South.

Hours pass and the familiar Transverse range comes into view. I pass through Taft and Maricopa, beneficiaries of the California oil boom, victims of its water pollution. I ascend the mountain range with little more effort than a flick of the ankle and a conjuration of the massive human enterprise of oil extraction. This time I cross the Transverse through the Elk Hills oil field. Rising steam is visible at a distance, atop the only green section of an otherwise barren landscape. Here my dance partner gives herself to transmute into the steam; she forces herself into the ground to soften the thick, dark crude, which miners once extracted by hand, utterly naked, bucket by bucket, until the methane and sulfur overwhelmed their senses.

Improbably nestled in these desolate, flammable mountains is the Ojai Valley. Entering from the west, I perceive the faults tearing themselves apart, revealing sweet scented layers of rich loamy soil for those working the land. The hectares of citrus and olive trees concur. The land and air is known to have healing qualities, and local advertisements for such healing services make generous use of this reputation. Presently the town is overrun by wealthy vacationers from the nearby metropolis, sauntering through traffic in their sun hats and linen shirts, so I move through to the east end, to the property where JK used to live.

Did JK understand the significance of this valley? The Chumash knew, but they were driven out long ago, massacred by a land grant and an army. He and his brother were simply airdropped here to recover from tuberculosis, by a Western cult hellbent on proclaiming him as the reincarnation of Christ and Buddha. It was here, that their prophesies unfolded exactly: he was reborn a bodhisattva, under this pepper tree. This is where he died, sixty four years later, in this room, facing this window, no, he was laying down, looking up at the ceiling, before painfully entering a final sleep… these white wooden slats were his last view. And this is the window looking out on the pepper tree, his ever-present, ever-silent companion, which fell the day after his death, split open by lightning.

A squirrel contemplates, as JK once did, in the hollow of the tree, the comings and goings of life, and bids yet another visitor welcome.

How many Chumash sages came and went, under this same tree, this same moon, in this same valley?