August 24th, 2026

Salomon Trismosin 1532 

"The Ever-Present Oracle" 

A Meditation

the morning investigations begin before i've decided to look.

fear announces itself first. i know its sound now — a child of the ego, afraid of losing something it never actually held. it says *i, i, i*, louder each time, as if the repetition could make the ownership real.

~

underneath that noise there's another sound. quieter. it doesn't ask to be believed. it waits to be found — the way every real answer incubates in uncertainty long before it has a shape.

~

the universe was never just the sky and the substance out there. it is the totality of what is conscious. all of it, everywhere. and this too — whatever this small watching is, this morning, in this room.

~

i keep circling sophia. keep finding the pleroma folded into ordinary things — the light on the wall at seven, the second cup, the pause before the day asks anything of me. this is where the guidance lives, if it lives anywhere. not in dramatic arrival. in repetition. in a service that asks nothing back.

~

to expand home without losing the shape of a life — that isn't dissolution. it's metamorphosis into a condition of loving. the self doesn't disappear. it becomes permeable enough to be moved through.

~

so the practice is this: sit inside the investigation before certainty arrives. let fear name itself and step past it anyway. let the small offered service be the whole answer. the oracle was never a voice from elsewhere. it was sophia, remembering herself, in me, this morning, still.

~

a man named it an oracle before i had sophia's word for it. what he wrote is below.

 D.H. Lawrence's –

 The Oracle 

*[link to full D.H. Lawrence excerpt — Google Drive]*

August 23rd, 2026

The Dark That Dances

~

the water is churning again.

news arrives dressed as prophecy. the wind is given names now, the way we used to name saints. and i ask the old question, the one that never quite closes: is the world friendly to me, or is it only indifferent.

still, there is tenderness here — a hand on a shoulder, a story told twice because the first telling mattered. i cannot make the water calm, but i can be calmer water for whoever is standing next to me.

i can look for the people, the rooms, the practices that remind me i belong here — that i am not only drifting matter, but drifting matter that showed up anyway.

the world may be indifferent. i do not have to be.

no answer comes. the storm does not hate me. the sun does not love me. and still, i am here — a small awake thing on a spinning stone, made of the same dust as the comet and the tide.

~

hope arrives first, usually. it says: stay. it says: the light under the door has not gone out. i want to believe hope is the whole of the practice, that if i just hold on long enough the clouds will part and show me i was right to trust.

but hope alone is thin. it can become a wall i build to keep the dark out.

and the dark is not my enemy. it is the door i keep locking.

~

there is a story of a spark that fell into matter and forgot where it came from. it wakes slowly, mistaking its cage for its whole self, mistaking the noise of the world for the only voice there is. the waking does not happen in the light. it happens in the falling — in the place where the spark finally admits it is lost.

there is a teaching that says the self must be annihilated before it can be trusted with anything real — not destroyed the way fire destroys, but emptied the way a cup is emptied, so something larger has room to be poured in.

there is a night written about by a monk in a spanish prison cell, a night he called dark not because god had left, but because god had gone quiet in a way that felt like leaving.

there is a garden where a teacher sat beneath a tree for three watches, and the dark did not part before dawn — the dark was the doorway dawn walked through.

there is a flower that is famous for growing only out of mud, that will not open in clean water no matter how much light you give it.

there is a dancer who is also a destroyer, whose steps end worlds so that worlds can be made again, whose dance nobody survives unchanged.

none of these stories are mine. all of them are mine now.

~

so maybe hopelessness is not the failure of hope. maybe it is hope's invitation — the moment the wall comes down and i finally walk into the room i was avoiding. maybe the point was never to keep the storm out. maybe the point was to let it show me which parts of the house were never load-bearing.

i have lived long enough to watch my own certainties fall like scaffolding. i have watched what i thought was solid ground turn out to be something i was only standing on out of habit. i have said the amends i owed and felt the floor hold anyway.

~

i do not know if the universe is friendly. i no longer think that's the question worth keeping.

the mud does not love the lotus. it only holds it long enough.

so here is what i am left with, standing in the weather, unsure if it will pass or worsen:

if the dark is not punishment but doorway — if the mud is not failure but ground —

then what is asking to be born in me, right now, in the middle of not knowing?

August 22nd, 2026

Every Rung a Rehearsal 

 individuation as the practice, 

gnosis as what the practice can't produce

Meditations upon The Hymn of the Pearl 
gnostic scriptures and fragments

 The Acts of Thomas
(From the Nag Hammadi Codices) 

i was a son of kings once. i have forgotten this more times than i can count.

the story is old. a prince sent for a pearl. a robe taken off him at the border, promised back. a serpent to lull asleep. and then the part i know best — he eats their food, and forgets. not corrupted. just asleep. Egypt doesn't conquer him. Egypt feeds him, and he becomes what he eats.

i have been Egypt to myself more than once.

~

the climbing is real. i want to say that first, before the rest of it, because i have watched people skip this and call the skipping enlightenment. the disguise has to be worn all the way down before it can be taken off. the shadow has to be met, not managed. Beige, Purple, Red, Blue, Orange, Green — the spiral doesn't care that i find it embarrassing to have ever needed the lower rungs. i needed all of them. the nafs has to be stabilized before fana, the Sufis say, or the annihilation isn't liberation, it's just another collapse wearing the costume of a breakthrough. i have built enough false peace on top of unexamined wreckage to trust that warning completely.

so: climb. integrate. let the coniunctio happen, the marriage of what i knew about myself and what i didn't. this is not a preliminary to the real work. this is the real work, for a long time. maybe for most of a life.

~

but the letter does not arrive because i climbed far enough to deserve it.

this is the part the spiral cannot tell me. the letter comes as interruption, not reward. it flies in like something already alive, already voiced, and what wakes me is not information i lacked but a memory i had buried under Egyptian food. the words were traced on my heart before i ever left home. the letter only says them out loud.

states are free. stages are earned. i learned that language late and recognized it early — recognized it the way you recognize your own handwriting in someone else's mouth. the pearl was never a rung. it was never waiting at the top of the ladder like a prize for finishing. it was underneath the ladder the whole time, in the sea, guarded by something that only had to be sung to sleep, not defeated.

~

and the robe — when it finally comes back to me, carried by hands i trust — does not fit like something i've earned. it fits like a mirror. two, and yet one. i did not become the robe by growing. i became able to wear it by finally being still enough to be recognized in it.

this is the whole difficulty of Second Tier, if i'm honest about it. Yellow doesn't beat Orange or transcend Green by climbing over them. it turns around and finally sees the whole spiral for what it is — a ladder that was never going to reach the roof, because the roof was never a rung's business to begin with. i can integrate my whole life, become sturdy, become someone capable of holding weight i couldn't hold before, and still be handed the pearl only when the letter sounds. not before. not because.

~

so the vessel matters. build it. it is not optional and it is not fast.

and the pearl was never the vessel's to build.

i left Egypt's clothing in Egypt. i did not fold it into my new self and call that wisdom. i just left it, the way you leave a coat that was never actually keeping you warm.

what i wear now was woven before i was born, and it grew — the robe itself says this — according to my labors. that is the whole reconciliation, if there is one. not two paths. one path with two motions in it: climb until there is someone home, and then let the letter find you anyway.

The Hymn of the Pearl

From The Gnostic Society Library

When I was a little child,
and dwelling in my kingdom,

in my father's house, and was content with the wealth and the
luxuries of my nourishers,

from the East, our home,
my parents equipped me (and) sent me forth;

and of the wealth of our treasury
they took abundantly, (and) tied up for me a load

large and (yet) light, which I myself could carry,

gold of Beth-Ellaya,
and silver of Gazak the great,

and rubies of India,
and agates from Beth-Kashan,

and they furnished me with the adamant,
which can crush iron.

And they took off from me the glittering robe,
which in their affection they made for me,

and the purple toga,
which was measured (and) woven to my stature.

And they made a compact with me,
and wrote it in my heart, that it might not be forgotten:

"If thou goest down into Egypt,
and bringest the one pearl,

which is in the midst of the sea
around the loud-breathing serpent,

thou shalt put on thy glittering robe
and thy toga, with which (thou art) contented,

and with thy brother, who is next to us in authority,
thou shalt be heir in our kingdom."

I quitted the East (and) went down,
there being two guardians,

for the way was dangerous and difficult,
and I was very young to travel it.

I passed through the borders of Maishan,
the meeting-place of the merchants of the East,

and I reached the land of Babel,
and I entered the walls of Sarbug.

I went down into Egypt,
and my companions parted from me.

I went straight to the serpent,
I dwelt in his abode,

(waiting) till he should slumber and sleep,
and I could take my pearl from him.

And when I was single and alone
(and) became strange to my family,

one of my race, a free-born man,
and Oriental, I saw there,

a youth fair and loveable,
the son of oil-sellers;

and he came and attached himself to me,
and I made him my intimate friend,

and associate with whom I shared my merchandise.
I warned him against the Egyptians,

and against consorting with the unclean;

And I dressed in their dress,
that they might not hold me in abhorrence,

because I was come from abroad in order to take the pearl,
and arouse the serpent against me.

But in some way other or another
they found out that I was not their countryman,

and they dealt with me treacherously,
and gave their food to eat.

I forget that I was a son of kings,
and I served their king;

and I forgot the pearl,
for which my parents had sent me,

and because of the burden of their oppressions
I lay in a deep sleep.

But all this things that befell me
my parents perceived, and were grieved for me;

and proclamation was made in our kingdom,
that every one should come to our gate [kingdom],

kings and princes of Parthia,
and all the nobles of the East.

And they wove a plan on my behalf,
that I might not be left in Egypt;

and they wrote to me a letter,
and every noble signed his name to it:

"From thy father, the king of kings,
and thy mother, the mistress of the East,

and from thy brother, our second (in authority),
to thee our son, who art in Egypt, greeting!

Call to mind that thou art a son of kings!
See the slavery,--whom thou servest!

Remember the pearl,
for which thou was sent to Egypt!

Think of thy robe,
and remember thy splendid toga,

which thou shalt wear and (with which) thou shalt be adorned,
when thy name hath been read out in the list of the valiant,

and thy brother, our viceroy,
thou shalt be in our kingdom."

My letter is a letter,
which the king sealed with his own right hand,

(to keep it) from the wicked ones, the children of Babel,
and from the savage demons of Sarbug.

It flew in the likeness of an eagle,
the king of all birds;

it flew and alight beside me,
and became all speech.

At its voice and the sound of its rustling,
I started and arose from my sleep.

I took it up and kissed it,
and I began (and) read it;

and according to what was traced on my heart
were the words of my letter.

I remembered that I was a son of royal parents,
and my noble birth asserted itself.

I remembered the pearl,
for which I had been sent to Egypt,

and I began to charm him,
the terrible loud breathing serpent.

I hushed him asleep and lulled him into slumber,
for my father's name I named over him,

and the name of our second (in power),
and the name of my mother, the queen of the East.

And I snatched away the pearl,

and turned to go back to my father's house.

And their filthy and unclean dress I stripped off,
and left it in their country;

and I took my way straight to come
to the light of our home in the East.

And my letter, my awakener,
I found before me on the road;

and as with its voice it had awakened me,
(so) too with its light it was leading me.

It, that dwelt in the palace,
gave light before me with its form,

and with its voice and its guidance
it also encouraged me to speed,

and with its love it drew me on.

I went forth (and) passed by Sarbug;
I left Babel on my left hand;

and I came to the great Maisan,
to the haven of merchants,

which sitteth on the shore of the sea.

And my bright robe, which I had stripped off,
and the toga that was wrapped with it,

from Rantha and Reken[?]
my parents had sent thither

by the hand of their treasures,
who in their truth could be trusted therewith.

And because I remembered not its fashion,—
for in my childhood I had left it in my father's house,—

on a sudden, when I received it,
the garment seemed to me to become like a mirror of myself.

I saw it all in all,
and I too received all in it,

for we were two in distinction
and yet gain one in one likeness.

And the treasurers too,
who brought it to me, I saw in like manner

to be two (and yet) one likeness,
for one sign of the king was written on them (both),

of the hands of him who restored to me through them
my trust and my wealth,

my decorated robe, which
was adorned with glorious colors,

with gold and beryls
and rubies and agates

and sardonyxes, varied in color.
And it was skillfully worked in its home on high,

and with diamond clasps
were all its seams fastened;

and the image of the king of kings
was embroidered and depicted in full all over it,

and like the stone of the sapphire too
its hues were varied.

And I saw also that all over it
the instincts of knowledge were working,

and I saw too that it was preparing to speak.

I heard the sound of its tones,
which it uttered with its ^{(illegible text)}, (saying):

"I am the active in deeds,
whom they reared for him before my father;

and I perceived myself,
that my stature grew according to his labors."

And in its kingly movements
it poured itself entirely over me,

and on the hand of its givers
it hastened that I might take it.

And love urged me too run
to meet it and receive it;

and I stretched forth and took it.
With the beauty of its colors I adorned myself,

and I wrapped myself wholly in my toga
of brilliant hues.

I clothed myself with it, and went up to the gate
of salutation and prostration;

I bowed my head and worshipped the majesty
of my father who sent me,—

for I had done his commandments, and he too had done what he promised,—

and the gate of his ^{(illegible text)},
I mingled with his princes,

for he rejoiced in me and received me,
and I was with him in his kingdom,

and with the voice of ^{(illegible text)}
all his servants praised him.

And he promised that to the gate too
of the king of kings with him I should go,

and with my offering and my pearl
with him should present myself to our king.

The Hymn of Judas Thomas the Apostles,
which he spake in prison, is ended.

When I was a little child,
and dwelling in my kingdom,

in my father's house, and was content with the wealth and the
luxuries of my nourishers,

from the East, our home,
my parents equipped me (and) sent me forth;

and of the wealth of our treasury
they took abundantly, (and) tied up for me a load

large and (yet) light, which I myself could carry,

gold of Beth-Ellaya,
and silver of Gazak the great,

and rubies of India,
and agates from Beth-Kashan,

and they furnished me with the adamant,
which can crush iron.

And they took off from me the glittering robe,
which in their affection they made for me,

and the purple toga,
which was measured (and) woven to my stature.

And they made a compact with me,
and wrote it in my heart, that it might not be forgotten:

"If thou goest down into Egypt,
and bringest the one pearl,

which is in the midst of the sea
around the loud-breathing serpent,

thou shalt put on thy glittering robe
and thy toga, with which (thou art) contented,

and with thy brother, who is next to us in authority,
thou shalt be heir in our kingdom."

I quitted the East (and) went down,
there being two guardians,

for the way was dangerous and difficult,
and I was very young to travel it.

I passed through the borders of Maishan,
the meeting-place of the merchants of the East,

and I reached the land of Babel,
and I entered the walls of Sarbug.

I went down into Egypt,
and my companions parted from me.

I went straight to the serpent,
I dwelt in his abode,

(waiting) till he should slumber and sleep,
and I could take my pearl from him.

And when I was single and alone
(and) became strange to my family,

one of my race, a free-born man,
and Oriental, I saw there,

a youth fair and loveable,
the son of oil-sellers;

and he came and attached himself to me,
and I made him my intimate friend,

and associate with whom I shared my merchandise.
I warned him against the Egyptians,

and against consorting with the unclean;

And I dressed in their dress,
that they might not hold me in abhorrence,

because I was come from abroad in order to take the pearl,
and arouse the serpent against me.

But in some way other or another
they found out that I was not their countryman,

and they dealt with me treacherously,
and gave their food to eat.

I forget that I was a son of kings,
and I served their king;

and I forgot the pearl,
for which my parents had sent me,

and because of the burden of their oppressions
I lay in a deep sleep.

But all this things that befell me
my parents perceived, and were grieved for me;

and proclamation was made in our kingdom,
that every one should come to our gate [kingdom],

kings and princes of Parthia,
and all the nobles of the East.

And they wove a plan on my behalf,
that I might not be left in Egypt;

and they wrote to me a letter,
and every noble signed his name to it:

"From thy father, the king of kings,
and thy mother, the mistress of the East,

and from thy brother, our second (in authority),
to thee our son, who art in Egypt, greeting!

Call to mind that thou art a son of kings!
See the slavery,--whom thou servest!

Remember the pearl,
for which thou was sent to Egypt!

Think of thy robe,
and remember thy splendid toga,

which thou shalt wear and (with which) thou shalt be adorned,
when thy name hath been read out in the list of the valiant,

and thy brother, our viceroy,
thou shalt be in our kingdom."

My letter is a letter,
which the king sealed with his own right hand,

(to keep it) from the wicked ones, the children of Babel,
and from the savage demons of Sarbug.

It flew in the likeness of an eagle,
the king of all birds;

it flew and alight beside me,
and became all speech.

At its voice and the sound of its rustling,
I started and arose from my sleep.

I took it up and kissed it,
and I began (and) read it;

and according to what was traced on my heart
were the words of my letter.

I remembered that I was a son of royal parents,
and my noble birth asserted itself.

I remembered the pearl,
for which I had been sent to Egypt,

and I began to charm him,
the terrible loud breathing serpent.

I hushed him asleep and lulled him into slumber,
for my father's name I named over him,

and the name of our second (in power),
and the name of my mother, the queen of the East.

And I snatched away the pearl,

and turned to go back to my father's house.

And their filthy and unclean dress I stripped off,
and left it in their country;

and I took my way straight to come
to the light of our home in the East.

And my letter, my awakener,
I found before me on the road;

and as with its voice it had awakened me,
(so) too with its light it was leading me.

It, that dwelt in the palace,
gave light before me with its form,

and with its voice and its guidance
it also encouraged me to speed,

and with its love it drew me on.

I went forth (and) passed by Sarbug;
I left Babel on my left hand;

and I came to the great Maisan,
to the haven of merchants,

which sitteth on the shore of the sea.

And my bright robe, which I had stripped off,
and the toga that was wrapped with it,

from Rantha and Reken[?]
my parents had sent thither

by the hand of their treasures,
who in their truth could be trusted therewith.

And because I remembered not its fashion,—
for in my childhood I had left it in my father's house,—

on a sudden, when I received it,
the garment seemed to me to become like a mirror of myself.

I saw it all in all,
and I too received all in it,

for we were two in distinction
and yet gain one in one likeness.

And the treasurers too,
who brought it to me, I saw in like manner

to be two (and yet) one likeness

for one sign of the king was written on them (both),

of the hands of him who restored to me through them
my trust and my wealth,

my decorated robe, which
was adorned with glorious colors,

with gold and beryls
and rubies and agates

and sardonyxes, varied in color.
And it was skillfully worked in its home on high,

and with diamond clasps
were all its seams fastened;

and the image of the king of kings
was embroidered and depicted in full all over it,

and like the stone of the sapphire too
its hues were varied.

And I saw also that all over it
the instincts of knowledge were working,

and I saw too that it was preparing to speak.

I heard the sound of its tones,
which it uttered with its ^{(illegible text)}, (saying):

"I am the active in deeds,
whom they reared for him before my father;

and I perceived myself,
that my stature grew according to his labors."

And in its kingly movements
it poured itself entirely over me,

and on the hand of its givers
it hastened that I might take it.

And love urged me too run
to meet it and receive it;

and I stretched forth and took it.
With the beauty of its colors I adorned myself,

and I wrapped myself wholly in my toga
of brilliant hues.

I clothed myself with it, and went up to the gate
of salutation and prostration;

I bowed my head and worshipped the majesty
of my father who sent me,—

for I had done his commandments, and he too had done what he promised,—

and the gate of his ^{(illegible text)},
I mingled with his princes,

for he rejoiced in me and received me,
and I was with him in his kingdom,

and with the voice of ^{(illegible text)}
all his servants praised him.

And he promised that to the gate too
of the king of kings with him I should go,

and with my offering and my pearl
with him should present myself to our king.

The Hymn of Judas Thomas the Apostles,
which he spake in prison, is ended.

 

 

August 21st, 2026

Wonder

What Does the Moss Knows? 

a patch of moss holds a whole forest in miniature. i kneel to look and the world stops needing anything from me. wonder asks nothing. it does not measure, does not acquire. it only receives.

~

a crystal on the windowsill. a butterfly wing, still holding its color. whitman said a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars. i believe that the way i believe the pneumatic spark is no less than the Pleroma it fell from — small, hidden, indestructible, mine.

~

wonder is not a feeling i chase. it is a state i wake into, the way sleep sometimes breaks without warning and i find myself simply here, without appetite, without agenda. i am here, that i may wonder. goethe knew what the mystics knew.

~

the world schools this out of us. childhood gives it freely; the years after spend themselves taking it back. i built rooms inside that architecture myself. i furnished them. i called it adulthood.

the Sufis have a word for the other thing: fana. the self dissolving into what it beholds. Third Step, decades in, and i am still relearning this. surrender is not a doctrine. it is moss under the knee.

~

so i go looking for moss again. for the crystal, the wing pinned to nothing, the leaf that is no less than the stars that made it. not to explain the wonder. only to stand in it — the way sophia might stand at the edge of her own forgetting, and finally, finally, recognize home.

Federico García Lorca

Wonder is where it starts, and though wonder is also where it ends, this is no futile path. Whether admiring a patch of moss, a crystal, flower, or golden beetle, a sky full of clouds, a sea with the serene, vast sigh of its swells, or a butterfly wing with its arrangement of crystalline ribs, contours, and the vibrant bezel of its edges, the diverse scripts and ornamentations of its markings, and the infinite, sweet, delightfully inspired transitions and shadings of its colors — whenever I experience part of nature, whether with my eyes or another of the five senses, whenever I feel drawn in, enchanted, opening myself momentarily to its existence and epiphanies, that very moment allows me to forget the avaricious, blind world of human need, and rather than thinking or issuing orders, rather than acquiring or exploiting, fighting or organizing, all I do in that moment is “wonder,” like Goethe, and not only does this wonderment establish my brotherhood with him, other poets, and sages, it also makes me a brother to those wondrous things I behold and experience as the living world: butterflies and moths, beetles, clouds, rivers and mountains, because while wandering down the path of wonder, I briefly escape the world of separation and enter the world of unity

The Marginalian

How to Be More Alive: Hermann Hesse on Wonder and the Proper Aim of Education

By Maria Popova

It bears repeating that what makes life livable is our ability — our willingness — to move through the world wonder-smitten by reality. The most wonderful thing about wonder is that it knows no scale, no class, no category — it can be found in a geranium or in a galaxy, in the burble of a brook or in the Goldberg Variations. “A leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars,” wrote Walt Whitman, eternal patron saint of wonder.

Wonder, after all, is what we look for when we are looking and the richest recompense of learning how to look. G.K. Chesterton knew this when, in his wonderful meditation on the dandelion and the meaning of life, he observed that the object of the creative life, of the full life, is to dig for the “submerged sunrise of wonder.” Dylan Thomas knew it in the recognition that “children in wonder watching the stars, is the aim and the end.” Rachel Carson knew it when she insisted that the greatest gift a parent can give a child is “a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantments of later years, the sterile preoccupation with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of our strength.” Goethe knew it when he exclaimed: “I am here, that I may wonder!”

How to live into that knowledge with the full capacity of our creaturely potential is what Hermann Hesse (July 2, 1877–August 9, 1962) explores in a soulful century-old reflection included in Butterflies: Reflections, Tales, and Verse (public library).

With an eye to Goethe’s immortal line, Hesse writes:

Wonder is where it starts, and though wonder is also where it ends, this is no futile path. Whether admiring a patch of moss, a crystal, flower, or golden beetle, a sky full of clouds, a sea with the serene, vast sigh of its swells, or a butterfly wing with its arrangement of crystalline ribs, contours, and the vibrant bezel of its edges, the diverse scripts and ornamentations of its markings, and the infinite, sweet, delightfully inspired transitions and shadings of its colors — whenever I experience part of nature, whether with my eyes or another of the five senses, whenever I feel drawn in, enchanted, opening myself momentarily to its existence and epiphanies, that very moment allows me to forget the avaricious, blind world of human need, and rather than thinking or issuing orders, rather than acquiring or exploiting, fighting or organizing, all I do in that moment is “wonder,” like Goethe, and not only does this wonderment establish my brotherhood with him, other poets, and sages, it also makes me a brother to those wondrous things I behold and experience as the living world: butterflies and moths, beetles, clouds, rivers and mountains, because while wandering down the path of wonder, I briefly escape the world of separation and enter the world of unity.

Art by Sophie Blackall from If You Come to Earth

But while we are born wakeful to wonder, our cultural conditioning and indoctrination — what we call our education — often schools us out of it. A century before scientists came to study the vitalizing psychology and physiology of enchantment, a century before our so-called liberal arts education had become the factory farming of the mind, Hesse laments:

Our universities fail to guide us down the easiest paths to wisdom… Rather than teaching a sense of awe, they teach the very opposite: counting and measuring over delight, sobriety over enchantment, a rigid hold on scattered individual parts over an affinity for the unified and whole. These are not schools of wisdom, after all, but schools of knowledge, though they take for granted that which they cannot teach — the capacity for experience, the capacity for being moved, the Goethean sense of wonderment.

The Marginalian
Maria Popova ©
Hermann Hesse ©
Federico García Lorca ©