We hold in our bodies our cultural wounds, our social spell-casting, our ancestors unfinished songs. We hold in our bodies the deep tidal magnetisms of connection, the organizing rhythms of organic intelligence, the ambrosial bouquets of ancient ancestral blessings.
There were three roses; the one you were told to eat, the one you were told not to eat, and the one you were not told about at all.
Whether you are a banjo or a harp, or by your nature an instrument of some other, we find the golden strings, and tune them. The songs you play are up to you. But with Silence as the greatest instrumental accompanist ever, apprenticing with her, and you shall never again play alone.
And with a dusky quickening to your own cosmic sinew, and with the gift of daybreak's finite horizon, your wandering twin stumbles down the slippery stone path, back to the heat of your heart, the hold of your hands, and the holiness of home.