An Affinity for Stones

I have an affinity for stones: mountains, outcroppings, the huge standing stones of Easter Island and Stonehenge with their age old mystery of how and why and by whom, and especially the smaller stones more in keeping with an ordinary life, stones that I can hold in my hand and ponder.

I once had a small piece of citrine that I carried with me for months. I'd bought two on a bus trip to a mountain lodge in New York state. I kept one and gave the other to my cousin who had lived on a farm in that area as a child. It forged a stronger connection between us, captured the sunlight of that autumn day, the flame of the lodge's fireplace and the memories of our shared childhood. I was heartbroken when I lost it.

Last year I bought several thunder eggs, round, hollow rocks filled with minerals that have trickled through fissures and cracks to produce bands of agate and drusey quartz. Someone searched for them and found them, cut them in half and polished them. Like a potato gone awry, one egg is actually a triple. Stripes of gray and white agate serpentine their way around the peculiar shape and enclose crystals of sparkling amethyst. In another specimen, clear-as-glass quartz allows bits of moss to show through.

There are a few other pieces I've collected, geode slices, an aragonite cluster, both selenite and barite (Cherokee tears!) "roses" and a chunk of lapis lazuli.

Ah, now we come to the reason for this post. A type of confession, if you will. Recently I learned not to consider myself unusual. Uniqueness was a point of pride for me many times during my life, but I've been proven wrong so often that I finally get it. Really I do. The alphabet clusters that twine up my DNA ladder to form my endearing, prideful idiosyncrasies --- are shared by many people. Who knew? Well, although I lost out on that point, at least I've met some lovely, laughing, kindred souls, who understand me.

Or perhaps not. This one time, perhaps not. Did I tell you that I don't believe in the power of crystals? This stone for grief, that one to help you release your anger and find true love? Sorry, don't buy it. Talismans? Good luck charms? Nope. I'm a Christian, I know who gives me help and where I'm going.

But.

The lapis lazuli fits my palm. The fingers of my hand conform easily to its shape, it nestles there as if it had been carved expressly for me. It's smooth and warms to my touch. I told my minister once (hastily adding the disclaimer that I attributed to it no magical powers) and, to my amazement, he understood. So occasionally when my faith swells so strong it threatens to overpower me or more often when it shrinks to mustard seed size, the stone and I rest together. When I go to bed I place it in my hand and remember. I let the fact that its existence spans thousands of years remind me of the Creator I believe in. Everlasting to everlasting. I take comfort in the cycle of change that comes to all living things and the power of nature and time that subtly transforms rocks to sand and then sand to sediment and back to rock again.

Past, present and future meld together. Psalms of praise float through my mind as I sleep. Hymns and Bible verses surface to comfort me each time I wake: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee," "Upon this Rock I build my church," A wise man built his house upon a rock," Truly, if these were quiet, even the very rocks would cry out!" And each time, I awake smiling and at peace, the rock cradled gently in the palm of my hand.