The universe weaves each asymptotic imperfection into her woof of impeccable order, an order that human reason cannot conceive, and so we call it "chaos." The idealist, the moralist, the political or religious perfectionist, deems the world "wicked." But the root of this word means woven, like wicker, like a weir, the weird perfection that can only be comprehended by astonishment.
Wickedness may also be related to "wisdom" and "vision," which derive from the Sanskrit "veda," the visionary source of the most ancient scripture, the Vedas.
While there are occasions of random weird and even violent chaos, they somehow weave into the harmony of the whole, in one eternal Now that has always already happened in the gaze of the Witness, Mother of Time.
Nature may brook some ruthless economy, but She is never atrocious. War and its idiotic violence never serve the economy of nature. They arise when Believers use their ideals to unravel and "straighten out" nature's wicker. Our intellect cannot fathom the ineluctably woven chaos of She-Who-Is. One may only comprehend her as Wholeness in the now of wonder. Then chaos resolves into harmony, and every violent or tragic event has its luminous light, its less, its woven thread in the tapestry of perfection. Only through a moment of wonder can we see this wholeness. Only through astonishment is peace possible.
Dance with the morning of things just as they are. Out of that dance arise spontaneous works of Play.
Works of Play weave the perfect world that is always happening in the wondrous gaze of Mother Wisdom.