There is knowing before proof, before language––a well of strength,
and a voice. All humans are creatures first, and does the oriole argue
for song? Is the song her testament? No, the song is what she is
singing, because she is.
For us, of course, sensation is not enough. But it is a useful power,
this measure between chaos and the beginning of self. How tragic
it would be, has been, may still be––when knowing is limited to
what can be readily explained.
Beyond what simply is, what is it that matters? This is not about
what is done, but how. Not ends but means. If there are no ends
but this, imagine the meaning of a life, this fullness.
Here is a power born of chaos and from it, music moves, and through
its force, a body may learn its dance. What songs are missed when
this is muted, what unimagined means, and into what might we
pass, from this dark hour?