The Last Rock

I have gathered rocks since I was a wee child. I sat with them and they seemed to talk with me. As I grew older, I began to pocket them one or two or a few at a time, and then, little by little, more and more.

Each one had a story to tell or a comfort of mine to attend. A sparkle or a shine was enhanced by the water in which it was found. Color was captivating too when covered in the rush of a tiny rapid. Each one chosen with intention.

I played, I explored, I was lost in the gather, but guilt found my heart when my pockets were full and I wanted another.

Rocks, stones, pebbles, small boulders, smooth, rough, a bit of quartz, a flash of mica, a memory of a place, a person, a magical mystery in my mind’s eye making sense for once.

Multiple dispersed and sorted piles, tall and short glass jars and vases, former note card and shoe boxes contain the rocks I’ve gathered through the years. They’ve been put in storage, into cupboards, and old jelly jars, displayed on shelves alongside books, added to flower gardens for decoration, and transported around the world with added expense—for my pleasure.

Today, I hold in my fingers a simple, singular, pink rock of clay and quartz that I found on a dry and dusty Colorado trail two and a half years ago. As I tenderly and tearfully pried her with intention from the dirt that day, she spoke to me her name, and she became a symbol of a promise—a promise to myself and to the land— that she would be The Last Rock that I would remove from her place of being.

Now, when I hike and I spy a stone, that catches my eye, I think of Her upon my desk, waiting for my return, that I might be empty-handed of her kind. Her hope for me is that I keep my promise, that I might find an alternative to that potential momentary yet permanent extraction.

And perhaps, this promise might pass to another as imagining different ways to sustainably gather what is truly necessary from this planet we call home.