Rocks

Some people have hobbies. They collect different items ad nauseum--like sea shells. Remember the shell boxes and purses from the early to mid 1900s? People must have gotten tired of their shell collections after a while and decided to make something with them-boxes, purses. The boxes were initially sent as valentines from sailors at sea to their sweethearts at home.

Shells are nice, but I collect rocks.

I love rocks, all kinds of rocks. They’re not valuable to any body but me. I can’t see anyone wanting my collection when I am gone. No worries of someone breaking in to steal them. Actually if they wanted them bad enough, they could visit my garden and steal them from there—if they could find them. Some are visible—in the bird bath or on the tree stump we left coming through the porch because it makes a good cup holder when needed, but most are around the garden in flower pots or sitting on the edging of bricks or laying on the soil under a favorite plant. They are not the common rocks you find in the garden, they’re magical. (I think I sense a children’s story coming from this.)

Years ago when I first moved into this house, I would find smooth, beautifully shaped rocks sitting on top of the soil where I planned to garden and could swear they hadn’t been there the day before. I would admire them and sometimes bring them in the house and put them on the window sill or coffee table to enjoy.

Then I started to see the pattern; when I was in a good mood and not thinking of anything in particular, I would find one of the rocks. I considered it grace, a little nudge to stay positive and joyful. Until it got ridiculous. I found them all the time and I began to think neighborhood kids might be playing tricks on me.

Finally, I toyed with the idea that maybe there are fairies and gnomes in the garden at night that move them around. (Note the book plate I mentioned in an earlier post of the fairy/gnome/whatever by Jos. Lada that I found at the SF flea market.)

I seem to have some sort of affinity with this concept of little people. Hey, the Irish don't have a problem with the little people, why should I. There's some Irish blood in my veins after all.

Anyway, I stopped trying to figure out why they turn up sporadically from seemingly nowhere. I just enjoy them when I find them, knowing they are probably always there and I just see them when I am really tuned into my garden—just Being.

Lately, a squirrel has been coming to my tree stump and knocking one of the rocks off when he lands on the five inch round stump (I know it’s a squirrel because I saw him from my window the other day as he jumped on the stump, knocking one off). Initially I didn’t think he intended to do it, so I moved some off the stump to make room so if he wanted to use it as a landing spot he would have room without knocking a rock off. But he always knocks just one rock off anyway. Coincidence you say? I’d rather think he is playing with me, and I got to thinking maybe he was the one who started leaving the rocks in the first place, except he couldn’t be old enough.

Maybe my collection is large enough now that I should start gluing them on boxes. Nah, too heavy. Oh, well…see the magic, feel the joy.