He had a ability to appreciate so much. To connect with us in so many ways. I now read some of his words differently... As if he knew more than he was saying or was encoding things to be read later for the future.

Here again is TS Eliot (Four Quartets):

Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;
And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think 'the past is finished'
Or 'the future is before us'.
At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,
Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,
The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)
'Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.
At the moment which is not of action or inaction
You can receive this: "on whatever sphere of being
The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death"—that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
Which shall fructify in the lives of others:
And do not think of the fruit of action.
Fare forward.
O voyagers, O seamen,
You who came to port, and you whose bodies
Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,
Or whatever event, this is your real destination.'
So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna
On the field of battle.
Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

http://www.tristan.icom43.net/quartets/salvages.html

I am so sure you are correct. This man's heart reaches every sincere heart. And always will, I believe.

I agree. We need to do our best to carry on his spirit.

Your brief but beautiful tribute is part of that. He was a man of simplicity, humility, and so grounded.

Here is his description of exactly that:

If it had been another era we might have wound up sharing a bench in a river pavilion, drinking yellow wine and singing poetry to a summer wind-blown moon! Hreb would be there too of course, the old tramp!

You've channeled him for sure!

I've seen hreb (The Reb as I call him) a few times of late.

But yes, Dear Reb, please phone home. And come home!