Lately, there has been a very strong collective “asking” for peace rising across the planet.
Starting in the Fall of 2025, we saw Buddhist monks walk from Texas to Washington, D.C., inviting people to cultivate “peace within.” Their quiet, steady footsteps carried a simple but profound message: real change begins in the human heart. Watching that unfold reminded me how deeply people everywhere are longing for relief—from conflict, from fear, from instability—and how many are actively seeking a more compassionate, peaceful world.
Earlier in 2025, the election of Pope Leo XIV felt to me like another expression of that same collective calling. Amid ongoing wars, unrest, and uncertainty, so many people are yearning for a leader who will speak clearly and courageously about peace. I believe when enough hearts sincerely ask for something better—for understanding, for healing, for love—that request does not go unheard.
This present moment reminds me of my painting done in 2001 called "Asking for Peace."
In 2001, we were in Italy on September 11.
More specifically, we were in Florence finishing a tour of the Uffizi Gallery when the news began to spread.
Like most significant events, people often remember exactly where they were when they first heard.
The next day, we were in Rome.
At noon there was a moment of silence. We were at the Vatican, making our way to St. Peter’s Basilica for a tour. It was extraordinary to stand there in the street among so many others, quietly united in prayer. You could definitely feel the weight of the world, yet there was also something deeply steady in that shared stillness.
After the moment of silence, we entered St. Peter’s Basilica. As we took in its breathtaking beauty, I remember turning and noticing the back wall.
On both sides of the entrance doors were enormous carved doves holding olive branches. The light streaming into the basilica made them glow in a way that was completely striking and symbolic.
I took a couple of photographs, including this one of me and my mom, not knowing then how I would come to use these photos later.
When we returned from Italy, the image of the dove stayed in my mind.
At the time, we were living in an apartment while house hunting in the Massachusetts/New Hampshire area for a new job Bruce had just started. I didn’t have access to my oil paints, so when it came time to create that year’s Christmas card—as I like to paint my own each year—I reached for my watercolors instead. They were easy to pack and perfect for that in-between season of our lives.
I had not taken the photograph thinking, “This will make a beautiful Christmas card.” But in the months following September 11, as the world was still trying to steady itself, I found myself searching for an image that could express what so many of us were feeling.
The dove came to mind immediately.
It held the olive branch gently but firmly. It represented not only the longing for peace, but the possibility of it.
I remember sitting on the floor of our apartment, leaning against the couch, carefully sketching the proportions. Drawing has not always been my greatest strength, and yet that day everything seemed to fall into place. Looking back, I can say it felt guided. The image came together in a way that surprised even me.
Now, some 25 years later, I am thinking about that dove again.
The world once more feels deeply unsettled. Ongoing conflicts—between Russia and Ukraine, in the Holy Land, and in many other regions—have created enormous suffering. So many people are living with uncertainty, displacement, hunger, and fear. And yet beneath all of that, I sense something else growing stronger: a shared and urgent desire for peace.
In revisiting the teachings of Abraham Hicks, as shared by Esther and Jerry Hicks, I was reminded of the idea of contrast. They suggest that when we experience something deeply unwanted—war, tragedy, illness—it clarifies with great intensity what we do want. Out of heartbreak comes a sharper, more focused desire for healing. Out of chaos comes a clearer longing for peace.
Contrast gives birth to intention.
And when enough people hold that intention together, something powerful begins to form.
This is where I also think of Rupert Sheldrake’s work on morphogenetic fields—the idea that there are invisible fields of shared information that influence patterns in nature and human behavior. If enough hearts are sincerely focused on peace, compassion, and understanding, perhaps that collective focus strengthens the very field that makes those qualities more likely to emerge in our shared experience.
Perhaps leadership itself can arise out of that field as well.
Whether one belongs to the Roman Catholic Church or not, the Pope carries significant spiritual influence for over a billion people worldwide. Pope Francis laid important groundwork for compassion, peace and dialogue. And when Pope Leo XIV, in his very first words after being chosen, made a clear and urgent call for peace and love for one another, it felt to me like an answer to something that had already been building.
Not just within the Church—but within humanity.
And this longing is not confined to one tradition.
The Buddhist monks who walked from Texas to Washington, D.C., asking people to cultivate “peace within,” were expressing the same truth from another spiritual language. Peace can be inspired by treaties and podium speeches, but it actually begins quietly—in the individual heart. When enough individuals choose it, it expands outward.
Our thoughts and emotions shape the reality we experience. When large numbers of people unite in love, intention, and prayer—regardless of the name they use for the divine—profound change becomes possible.
To me, the election of Pope Leo XIV is not simply a political or institutional event. It feels symbolic. It feels like a visible reflection of an invisible asking that has been growing stronger for years.
A reminder that when we deeply desire something better—for our families, for our neighbors, for those suffering across oceans—that desire matters.
I believe the dove I painted in 2001 is still relevant and speaks.
It reminds me that even in the aftermath of tragedy, even in seasons of uncertainty, light can stream in at just the right angle. And symbols of peace can appear larger than we expect.
Perhaps they are always there...
Just waiting for us to notice.
If you like this image, what types of products would you maybe like to see it on?
I’m currently exploring archival prints and possibly a small contemplative notebook featuring this image. If one of those feel meaningful to you, I’d love to know. Please send me a message via the Let's Connect page. Thank you!