I like stones.

Sometimes when sitting on the river bank I start moving stones. I might make a little pile, I might just move them around to see if I find anything interesting in them. I like to keep them every once in a while, they remind me of different things.

This moving of stones is almost like the laying of hands, exceot that in this case the process is reversed, because when i touch them i seem to exchange my little worries for some of their stability and calm.

I like stones. To me they are not dead or inert but as alive as the crystals and minerals that compose them. While they may appear unchangeable, I know that each one has a character of its own and an indelible record of some phase of the earths history.

The stones i keep-they remind me of places Ive been, places where a memory was made in one way or another. Maybe its a memory of a riverbank where i saw the water trickling down like crystal liquid over a bed of green and orange moss. Maybe it reminds me of a dry summer day when I was so tired that i could barely lift my feet up high enough when i walked, and kicked dirt and dust covered rocks all over with every step.

Maybe it reminds me of throwing rocks into the river with my son, worrying about nothing in the world but how far we could throw them or how many times i could get them to skip.

Maybe it reminds me of my father throwing rocks into the same river with his son and feeling the same thing years and years later.

I like stones.