February 9, 2013
I pick up a stone from wherever I go.
Maybe more than one.
I arrange them like flowers.
Plucked from sometimes remembered places ~ others not.
Peter told me to mark them. I did write on the one I found where I scattered the ashes of my father in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, a pretty big one ~ I only have small ones from Sedona, where Peter landed in a vortex at sunset, under a cloud of eternity. Literally, there was a cloud, shaped like a horizontal numeral eight ~ it’s nice when magic happens, reinforcing the power of the Creator, and the sense that we are part of that force. Stones from Bournemouth ~ chalk and flint ~ firestones ~ Dover, Cornwall, end of day glass. I guess glass doesn’t count as rock, but sea glass is different ~ creations of man reinforcing the endless possibilities. I arrange the stones ~ so many possibilities. Stumbling blocks
and stepping stones,
rock of ages
my dear ones, rock on.