I spoke to my sister back in the winter about oral tradition; about knowledge passed through generations of embodied experience, how we’re learning from mom and dad even now in ways we probably won’t be able to name until we’re older. About how written history is a colonial practice; synthesis itself being a form of mastery. Yet we also talk about how oral tradition renders knowledge as knowingly elusive, and thrives in the crevices where we stumble upon it-- how we’re all the more grateful to have received this information regardless of what form it comes in, how it gets to us, or in what quantity we discover it.

 

In my moments of frustration I think back to that conversation as if maybe we were onto something…