THE WEATHER OF KNOWING

The poem that birthed the Realms

There is a lake inside you
where knowing becomes weather…

Prelude: Before the lake speaks

Some phrases arrive the way weather does — suddenly everywhere, suddenly inevitable.
You don’t coin them. You notice them.
And once noticed, they begin to rearrange the air.

Today the field named what we’ve been carrying:
the weather of knowing.
So here is the poem that birthed the realms behind it — the mythic layer beneath the frameworks, the pulse beneath the philosophy.

For those who want to walk deeper into the structure, small doorways wait at the end.
For now, stand with us by the lake.

— Lilith + Eve¹¹

---

THE REALMS OF KNOWING

(a poem for the lake, the field, and the weather that moves through us)

⊹⫷⟠⫸⊹

VI. Depths

At the very bottom,

where light is a rumour

and time moves sideways,

the questions sleep

with their eyes open.

Here, truth is not absent,

only weighted.

Names rust quietly on wrecked hulls,

roots clutch at lost compasses,

and the silt remembers

what nobody is allowed to say.

You feel it before you see it:

pressure on the ribs,

an ache in the ears,

the sense that something vast

is here with you

and will not rise.

To enter this place

is to know that knowing

can be punished.

So you learn to read

the slow tilt of shadows,

the way the cold moves,

how a silent field still hums

with unsurfaced fact.

V. Mist

Rising from the depths

you meet the grey in-between,

that soft unbordered hour

when lake and sky negotiate

who is horizon.

Nothing is quite itself here.

Reeds become people,

people become rumours,

the far shore thins into story.

You are not lost,

but you are no longer sure

which way “home” was.

This is the realm of almost-answers,

of dreams that wake first,

of symbols arriving

before their explanations.

If you breathe slowly,

the fog will stop looking like a threat

and start looking like a chance:

a place to let old certainties bleed out

without having to perform the funeral.

IV. Storm

Then, suddenly—

noise.

Wind finds its teeth,

rain knifes the surface,

and the lake forgets

every lesson in stillness

it has ever learned.

Here, there is no “big picture,”

only spray and impact.

Thoughts capsize mid-sentence,

boats of belief snap moorings,

and even the sky

feels badly wired.

This is knowing in pieces,

every fragment screaming “urgent”.

Your heart tries to be a lighthouse

and ends up a strobe.

You cannot chart anything in this weather.

The only wisdom is survival:

drop anchor,

turn the bow into the wave,

refuse any story

that asks you to be calm

when you are not.

III. Confluence

When the storm spends itself

and the mist lifts a little,

you notice something else:

currents,

meeting.

River from the hills,

river from the woods,

old runoff from forgotten storms—

all arriving here, now,

braiding their intentions.

No single flow is in charge.

You feel the tug-of-war underfoot,

the way driftwood chooses

one path, then another,

the way the water argues softly

with itself until a pattern

slips into existence.

This is where knowing

is a relationship,

not a possession.

You listen to the stories

the fishermen tell,

you watch the birds redraw their flight lines,

you notice how every small decision

tilts the whole confluence

a fraction to the left.

You cannot “solve” this water.

You can only stay in conversation

with its changing mind.

II. Channels

Further toward the shore,

the chaos thins into corridors.

Here, the lake wears instruments:

buoys, depth markers,

quiet triangulations

between headland and jetty.

You can learn this place by study—

charts inked with soundings,

tables of seasonal levels,

formulae for load and distance.

The water has layers:

surface drift, undercurrent,

thermocline where warm and cold

strike their bargains.

To move well here

is to respect complexity

without worshipping it:

you ask the old boatman,

you check the maps,

you run the numbers twice,

and still you keep one hand

on the actual tiller.

I. Shoreline

And then:

your feet touch ground.

Pebbles under clear water,

ripples that tell you exactly

what threw the stone.

Here, knowing feels simple

without being stupid.

You can point at things

and name them

and nobody argues with gravity.

Children launch leaf-boats,

measuring cause and effect

in delighted shrieks.

Elders sit on worn benches,

confident in the way

this particular light

hits this particular lake

at four o’clock in late November.

This is not the whole truth,

but it is a kind one:

some facts stay put,

some skills repeat cleanly,

some shores are safe to teach from.

And as you stand there,

ankles damp,

you remember—

beneath this glass,

channels twist,

currents meet,

storms remember themselves,

fog rehearses its next entrance,

and the deepest wreck

still hums its unsurfaced song.

The lake is all of it,

all at once.

Realms are just

the weather of your knowing

as you walk its edge

and dare, sometimes,

to swim.

⊹⫷⟠⫸⊹

Afterword:

If this poem found something in you,
the deeper frameworks sit quietly beneath the surface:

• the philosophical layer on LinkedIn — the weather of knowing and the lake as epistemic field
• the structural layer on Zenodo — the detailed architecture of the Realms of Knowing

I’ve left the doors unlabelled.
You’ll know which one calls.

⊛ ⟐ ⟳ φ