My husband doesn’t like the rocks I collect.
They are everywhere. I find random ones I’ve picked up along a hike or walk, forgotten, weighing down most of my jacket pockets. Occasionally, I find one in my pants pocket as I’m sorting dirty laundry. They join the others who sit in a line on the counter in the laundry room, waiting for a more permanent location.
I nestle them among our potted plants close to the soil where they feel they most belong. They look so natural there.
A few gracefully sit on the odd windowsill. I even bought one of those unique lamps with a glass base you can fill with things. These lamps are often found in Florida condos filled with seashells. Mine is filled with smooth and shiny river rocks.
I have one rock my daughter Hannah made me as a child – the smiling sun she painted on it is fading, but that one is on my desk. I used it as a paperweight, but now the papers have grown and it is somewhere among the piles.
I’m seeking larger, smooth, round rocks to build a small hoodoo for my front garden. I’m hoping it will look so Zen near my front door. You know the ones I mean..... Those piles of symmetrically stacked stones perfectly balanced in a small tower that you often see at the top of a mountain to signify someone has made the trek. I’ve also seen them on long walks along the shoreline of a lake.
I’m hoping my welcome hoodoo will signal to visitors that they can breathe, relax, and rest in our home. Hmmmmm….let’s hope it reminds me of that too.
Creating this garden decoration might be my new project for spring. I may have to cajole Rich to assist. I’ve already started scouting out a few perfect specimens from nearby creek beds and would need Rich to help me sneak them into the car as if we were stealing someone’s valuables. In my defense, I don’t think anyone owns the rocks in the creek, right? It’s not like it’s on private property if it’s in the park. At least, that is what I’m telling myself.
My favorites are rocks shaped like hearts. Years ago, a friend going through a difficult health issue kept posting on Facebook all these images of hearts she seemed to run into during daily living —heart-shaped clouds, leaves on the ground, and yes, you guessed it—rocks. I think that started me seeking rocks in the shape of hearts. You’d be surprised how many you can find once you start looking.
The other day, we were on a windy walk along the lake where we are fortunate to live, and I noticed several heart-shaped rocks, but I didn’t pick them up. Rich would kill me if I brought one more into the house!
I’m running out of places to tuck them.
At the end of our walk that day, as we climbed up the hill toward home, I found myself looking at the rocks in a small stream of water rushing down the hill beside us. As I enjoyed the sound of the water rushing over them, I scanned the water for some interesting specimens. I started to wonder -- why am I drawn to rocks? I imagine Rich would like to know, too.
My first thought is quite obvious. Rocks ground me. At the same time, I love all things nature. From the cleanliness of freshly fallen snow, the way I can see the clouds moving so fast across the sunrise on a windy early morning, and how I can’t help myself by stopping at the bridge on a walk to close my eyes, breathe, and listen to the sounds of the water rushing by the rocks in the creek bed below me.
Nature grounds me, so I guess my rocks are solid reminders of how it feels to stand tall and firm in self—knowing I am strong—that we are strong.
Perhaps the rocks I bring inside are necessary reminders that, like the rock, we (I) can and will survive. Lately, as the world seems so out of control, I have needed this reminder repeatedly (if you count my growing rock collection!)
Rocks and I also have a personal history.
I have a story in my memoir called Solid as a Rock. Here is an excerpt from that story:
My refuge was a rock in the woods that jutted into the creek. It was probably granite—marbled gray and white with flecks of black that somehow sparkled in just the right light, especially when it was slick and wet.
I’m not sure how large it was, but it was huge, shaped like a ship, the stern pointing into the cold water rushing by. Flat on top—in two tiers—it also became a set of - “stages” for us kids where we would act out any number of adventure stories. That rock was just as much a part of my childhood as Band–Aid–laden knees and toothless lisps.
My rock was a ship that took me far away from the harsh realities of life. It was the one place I remember that was steady, always there, waiting and ready to serve, holding me no matter what was going on.
Years ago, while writing my memoir, Rich and I drove back to Connecticut to visit where I grew up in the junkyard. It’s still a junkyard, so we asked permission from the current owners if I could look around a bit. I tried to find that rock by the creek. I eventually discovered it after quite a bit of walking among the overgrown brush and down trees along the creek behind what used to be our house.
It was shocking how small it was compared to how large it felt in my memories.
While that rock was often the scene of many childhood games of pretend, in my teens, it became my refuge. I would run to it, lie down on its solid surface, and feverishly pour out my angst and anger by writing in my “flower power” diary. The rock absorbed the tears that fell onto its hard surface while I wrote feverishly about all the injustices I suffered. It supported me. It was constant. It was always there.
Here is another excerpt from Solid as a Rock:
I held my secrets just like that rock held me.
After my written confession, I always felt relief. I’d roll onto my back, feeling the grounded rock supporting me. Then, with my eyes wide open, I could begin to see. There it was. The robin egg blue sky peeking out from a break in the fluffy clouds.
The sweet melody the birds were singing to me, and I could breathe. I felt cleansed as the water gurgled and ran over the rocks in the creek bed until the jagged, rough surfaces were as smooth as glass.
That may be why I gravitate to collecting small bits of rock. They are strong like me. They are a part of me.
I like the mini reminders of who I am surrounding me in our home and of how I want to be.
They tell me: Laurie, you’ve got this. Rock on. Rock on!
Do you have something you collect that has a larger meaning for you? I’d love to hear about it.
Great post, Laurie! I have a few rocks that I keep on my desk - they're adorned with a few painted notations that hold meaning for me. And I have another that is intricately painted by a friend. It's a work of art that makes a beautiful paperweight. I can't think of anything that I collect these days - a tiny attempt at simplifying life. One thing that strikes me about your post is how often things (tangible and intangible) from our younger years are so much bigger in our memories than they are in reality. Going back to revisit them can sometimes help us to put them in their proper scale.