Where is wisdom held? If it’s not within the textures and entanglements of the wild forests. The gnarling roots of a tree, that bulge and protrude into a trunk. Weaving in a disordered mesh as a canopy overhead. Is it not in this imperfect form that the softness and the kindness, and the deepest patience thrives. My form is moving. My roots sway like mountain streams. My forms are unusual. Twisted and matted is my bark. Yet, it ripples and flows into the branches. My roots - they hold the edge of this cliff to absorb the passing wind, to harness a wisdom, and protect it. Beneath the surface of everything, there is a wisdom that your heart desires - that your mind - no matter how hard it tries, would never understand. Without your heart, I cannot tell you of the knowledge that has blown through these branches. The universe wishes to give you a map of the stars that your heart reads. In the same way your skin feels the coolness of the ocean. Dissect the sensations within your heart. Each as a letter, a form that constructs a placenta of meaning that would feed your existence. Like the salt, crystallising on a fisherman’s boat in the sunshine. So too, would this wisdom be tasted if you slow down, to let your heart be heard. Slow as still. You must let all the salt settle. So this prism of light can pass through you, with all that we wish to share. Galaxies and universes congregate, wondering, when you will eventually listen, and learn of our existence. Your freedom is within you. If you dare to be still. Put your hand upon the gnarly roots. The jutting branches and you will hear us whisper. Anthologies to your heart.