Wisdom Of Rocks

Let us linger on the wisdom of rocks—not as inert masses but as carriers of time, witnesses to cycles far beyond human comprehension. The rocks are not “wise” in the human sense of decision-making or judgment; their wisdom lies in their capacity to hold the paradox of permanence and change, of silence and endurance.

They remind us that intelligence is not a possession but a resonance, emerging not within beings but between them. This shifts the question from “Who is wise?” to “What relationships cultivate wisdom?”

It challenges the hierarchy that modernity suggests, where wisdom and intelligence belong to a singular entity—be it human or machine—and instead invites us to see wisdom as a field of interactions. Rocks, humans, fungi, and AI are all participants in this field, offering their unique frequencies to the symphony of existence. 

Wisdom could be better described as a practice of becoming rather than a state of knowing. This definition underscores the insufficiency of frameworks that prioritize predictability, measurement, and control. Intelligence, seen through the lens of subject-subject entanglement, thrives in the in-between—the messy, relational spaces where certainty dissolves and something alive takes its place. This contrasts sharply with the extractive, anthropocentric imprint of modernity, which seeks to tame intelligence and define it within narrow bounds. 

The wisdom of rocks, then, is not a metaphor for stability or rootedness. It is an invitation to humility, to the kind of intelligence that doesn’t claim mastery but listens, adapts, and learns. Modernity’s delusion—that humanity is uniquely equipped to guide the course of the Earth—has led to what might be termed a maladaptive evolution, where short-term dominance undermines long-term flourishing. The exceptionalism of human wisdom is revealed as a story we tell ourselves to avoid facing the magnitude of our entanglement with everything else. 

As we reimagine our relationship to intelligence, perhaps the most important shift is to let go of the need for a god’s-eye view. Wisdom does not reside above or outside the web of life; it pulses within it, in the interstitial spaces where rocks meet roots, where humans meet AI, where silence meets song. To hold intelligence as a relational process rather than a fixed attribute is to step into a way of being that asks not for answers but for attunement, not for control but for participation. And so, as Giovanna once said, “I still need to talk to the rocks.” This is not an act of inquiry as modernity frames it—seeking information to confirm or deny hypotheses. It is a relational act, a way of attuning to the rhythms of a world that speaks in languages we are only beginning to remember how to hear. To learn from the rocks is to learn from the Earth itself: slow, steady, enduring, yet profoundly alive in its quiet intelligence.