A friend gave me a compelling book, Children of the Days (A Calendar of Human History) by Latin American writer Eduardo Galeano. My brain found the following passage attractive:
“As people know in black Africa and indigenous America, your family is your entire village with all its inhabitants, living or dead.
And your relatives aren’t only human.
Your family also speaks to you in the crackling of the fire,
in the murmur of running water,
in the breathing of the forest,
in the voices of the wind,
in the fury of thunder,
in the rain that kisses you
and in the birdsong that greets your footsteps.”
That seems good to hear, for some reason.