More than a few summers ago, I started a rock collection. Not on purpose and rather casually in much the same way that I used to pick up shells from the beach when I spent summers on the Jersey shore. Except that when you/one spends summers in the Adirondacks, shell picking is a limited experience. That is to say: there aren’t any. So, you make do with what’s there. Which are rocks.
Big, heavy rocks that you lug up from the shore line. Tiny, sparkly stones that fit into your pocket. I’ve lined several gardens at home with the larger rocks, and have made “rock arrangements” on quite a few flat surfaces around the house.
As if my collecting them wasn’t enough, I’ve got other people collecting them for me. My husband and a few of my girlfriends. My niece.
I like the heft and smooth feel of them in my hands; the unexpected glimpse of them as found art on one of the antique, marble topped tables that’s in the sun room. I pile them into small boxes, scatter them on bookshelves; it’s a peaceful and quiet addiction – a reminder that some things took millions of years of force and compression to end up in pieces that easily fit into my pocket.
They are touch stones. Boundary markers. Meditation pieces. Distractions; fun, and one of the more quirky things that I do that you hadn’t a clue about.
And, now you do. [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]