As it seems to me that all wisdom is bound up with death, and, moreover, that here, in what we think of as ‘life’ there is exceptionally little wisdom ambient amongst our species, and less so at the order of the collective or cooperative. Might we have this backwards? Let’s face it, this is one of our signature moves…

Is it not possible that this, here, all around us is death? And that the wisdom that leaks through from the other side is the secret light of life that enlivens our eyes and from which our hearts derive their rhythms? That what we so fear is not dying, but being born? For we even fear it in this ‘life’ we are supposedly ‘living’…

As interesting as such conjecture is, the truth is stranger still. For life and death are always woven together, like the front and back of a tapestry. One makes sense to the eye, the other… to the bones. Water is woven through stone. And the rhythm of our dreams is the shape and frequency of the stitch…