When I was a sophomore in high school, I spent a summer in Santander, Spain studying Spanish. It was my first international trip. We visited Las Cuevas de Altamira near the town of Santillana Del Mar. The caves house prehistoric paintings. Even at 16, I knew the significance of the caves and the paintings. The age of the earth and the lengths to which people tried to make sense of it and each other struck me deeply. I remember the total darkness and a wet cold damp world that we navigated by lamp light. I remember thinking, “How were the paintings created in such darkness?” There was mystery around every corner. I had never known that kind of darkness. I thought about the power of the living earth to cut and carve and tell stories. I thought about the people who painted on the cave walls and their fierce desire to communicate in a world where language was being born. I thought about the people who found and preserved the paintings and their commitment to sharing the story of the earth and its people. As I think about wordlessness in the context of a wild new world — the world where right and left brain dance and pronoia guides — I am reminded of the lessons of the caves and the human journey to and for words.