There was a time when learning did not feel separate from living.
Knowledge moved slowly then — across kitchens, courtyards, and fields. It was not delivered through instructions, but absorbed through presence. One learned by watching, by repeating, by making small mistakes and remembering them.
Food carried much of this knowledge. Not as information, but as familiarity. How long something rested. How heat changed texture. How taste deepened with patience.
Grains were known not by definition, but by behaviour . By how they responded to water, to fire, to time. No explanation was required when familiarity existed.
As systems grew larger, knowledge travelled farther from its source. What once moved through hands began to move through packaging. What was once trusted through use began to require interpretation.
Processes that were once instinctive became technical. Grinding, fermenting, resting — these acts shifted from being felt to being explained.
With this shift came distance. Not only from ingredients, but from confidence. We began to rely on markers instead of memory, symbols instead of experience.
Knowledge that was once shared quietly became something to be studied, compared, evaluated.
Perhaps what we miss is not information, but intimacy. The ease of knowing without proving. The comfort of choosing without doubt.
When wisdom was shared, it stayed.
When it was packaged, it travelled — but it rarely settled.