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She cradles my hands in hers, nurturing me with such delicacy. The difference is astounding. My hands are youthful and unblemished, wrapped in hers, dark as night, each joint prominently displayed, aged not only by time but the harsh conditions of the Maasai Mara. She is the Elderwoman of a large tribe whose significance is displayed through layers of variegated cloth, each of the many colours ascribed to a life giving force of nature. Despite this, her worth cannot be numeralised simply by material - or cattle - the cornerstone of the Maasai people. A maternal figure who embodies strength and power; grace and elegance. I glance at her one eye that still works, as the other appears blind, a perfect example of how this woman has spent her life dancing in dichotomies. She looks back, not at me, but into me. All but one of my senses fade as her gaze takes me to a place I can only describe as transcendence. The thick blue shùkà shrouded around her entire body brilliantly reflects the light in a way reminiscent of the sky that envelops our planet and the waters that cover it. Despite its indeterminable age, I see the endurance of each individual, carefully hand sewn stitch which has never once faltered in protecting her from the sharp solar burn of the unrelenting sun, that I can no longer feel beating down on me. This, in turn has sustained her life and culture, subsequently being passed down to all those that depend on her. Adorning this beautiful layer is the almost fluorescent green shùka that peers out from underneath and coats her right breast. This piece of cloth covers her lungs, similar to the plentiful vegetation that is embedded in the land. The importance of this layer, as expressed by the Maasai people, cannot be overstated, as each of the 8.7 million species that exist, have all risen from this fertile Earth to reap its benefits and breathe it’s oxygen, before surely returning to it once again. The oxygen filling my lungs, thick and past-like is no longer noticeable. I see that this carefully crafted material, although magnificent, is beginning to fray, its edges ripping to expose the Elderwoman's skin, little by little. This represents our forests that produce the perfect formula of life, for without this protective layer of gasses, there would be nothing to separate us from the vast, infinite and lifeless void that our planet wanders endlessly though. Clinging to the stretched, worn holes in her ears as well as her slender neck are a plethora of tiny beads of every shape and colour imaginable. The many patterns stacked layer upon layer, encompassed by her artisanal and vital textiles, stand out against her hardened skin revealing the true intricacy of the delicate beadwork. Cohesive and harmonious, despite their striking difference - for without it, the interwoven beauty wouldn't be nearly as profound. A sudden blur of colour darts across my vision, similar to that of a long exposure photograph. The beads of her necklace spill from their string in a fluid yet violent motion. My trance-like state shatters as I frantically try to catch the falling beads. Yet, she remains still. I look at her once again and notice that her fierce strength and soft excellence which had had me captured, made me unable to see that she is also weary, as if she has been wandering since the beginning of all existence only now beginning to succumb to the mercy of time. As I bend down to pick up the scattered beads, I look up at her, now towering over me. She begins to speak, although not a single sound emanates from her lips. “Your existence depends on the healthy longevity of each and every interwoven aspect of me, balanced in perfect equilibrium. You have never, and will never survive as a ‘biosingularity’, otherwise, I would not have spent billions of years weaving together this very fabric of life - a vast and limitlessly diverse system, all for your consciousness to exist in, right now.” I look down to the cracked ground scattered with patches of dry grass, the beads are not there.