Rock Collector
I love rocks. I’ve been collecting them since I can remember. I grew up near one of the Great Lakes and used to spend hours searching for arrowheads, traipsing around the local rock quarry, and generally taking every opportunity to pick up any stone or glistening pebble that caught my eye.
I can’t walk past one of those display tables full of small polished stones that they have in gift shops without stopping. I stand there in some sort of trance-like state while gently scooping up handfuls of shiny stones. I admire the facets and colors of each and every stone as they fall one by one from my open palm, dropping back into the pile while making that “plink, plink” sound. Souvenir shops normally sell them by the pouch, but how could I possibly choose among them? I always wish that I could buy the whole lot. If I had a table full of polished stones in my living room, I’d never get anything done.
Every hiking trip I have ever taken has included the procurement of a rock souvenir. When the kids were younger, I used to meet my best friend from college every spring season for a five-day sabbatical. Gabrielle and I would rent a secluded cabin in the mountains to indulge in some serious girl time. We watched movies, napped on the porch swing, ate whenever and whatever we wanted, drank, stayed up all hours of the night, talked, laughed, cried, and then hiked the mountain trails for hours on end. I always returned home with several new rocks for my collection.
There was one trip in particular when we set out on a early morning hike that ended up lasting until well after dark. Of course, we hadn’t planned on staying out that long, but we had somehow managed to detour off a well-marked path somewhere along our trek. Confident that we could find our way back to the cabin, we ended up completely lost instead. By the time the sun began its descent toward the horizon, daylight among the trees had diminished and we were still not even close to any familiar-looking terrain.
By this time, we were more than a bit nervous. Ribbons of panic wafted between us. Neither of us had been able to receive a cell phone signal for most of the afternoon. I’d like to attribute ’sheer luck’ to the fact that we finally emerged from the trees just as the sky completely darkened, at last stepping onto what appeared to be a road at the bottom of a steep hill. Luck, coupled with a shared burning desire to get the hell out of the scary woods, had delivered us to the first sign of civilization we’d seen all day. Our exhilaration was short-lived.
Two growling black dogs stood before us. I had one of those moments that I’d read somewhere, where you want to scream to the top of your lungs, but the sound gets stifled by fear in your throat. The only audible noises that I made sounded like strange, long tones trapped somewhere behind my immovable lips. Elle and I stood frozen, pressed together like two wide-eyed statues while each of our brains were busy formulating the option of fight or flight. It was probably the longest few seconds of my life.
I noticed movement in my peripheral view and glanced to my right in time to see a figure emerge from behind a truck that was parked in the middle of the gravel road, about one hundred yards or so from where we stood. In our excitement upon finding the road, neither of us had bothered to notice the truck, or the fact that we were standing on some one’s driveway. That someone was Mrs. Louise Turner, owner of two protective dogs and a shotgun. If I’d had anything to drink recently (which I did not, since who takes more than one water bottle on a short morning hike?) I would have peed in my hiking shorts right then. Miss Louise furrowed her eyebrows as she gave us the once-over, lowered her shotgun, cocked her head to one side and uttered the finest single word we had heard all day. “Lost?” She said it more like a statement than an actual question. Of course we were lost. Living among the mountains her entire life, she had experience with “our kind.”
Louise Turner was a cattle rancher, horse breeder, and chicken farmer who had the largest hands that either of us had ever seen on a woman. Elle and I still marvel about them to this day. She didn’t have a chainsaw or a banjo (that we knew of) but she did have a lighted house at the end of her driveway, and the best pot of lukewarm coffee that I have ever tasted. She had precise knowledge of the location of our cabin (over twenty miles away on the other side of a landmark the locals referred to as ’seven mile ridge’) and a warm truck to take us there. We had been rescued.
This is the part of my story where I had to tell you all of the above, just to tell you this: That was the day I finally quit collecting rocks.
Aside from the fact that Mrs. Louise Turner referred to us more than once as a “couple of yahoos,” Miss Louise (as she preferred to be addressed) was a kindhearted, practical, salt-of-the-earth kind of woman. As the three of us prepared for the journey back to our rented cabin, Miss Louise offered to load our backpacks into her vehicle. As she lifted mine from the ground, she showed no sign of physical strain while hefting my backpack in one fluid motion into the bed of her truck. She shot me a puzzled look. “Jeez, girl,” she chimed. “What ‘cha got in this bag of yours? Rocks?”
“Well yes, Ma’am,” I replied. “As a matter of fact, I do.” LOTS of them, in fact. It had been a long, long hike over plenty of uncharted territory that day. There had been countless rock specimens of irresistible beauty that beckoned to me throughout the day. I picked up every single one of them.
“Dear child,” Miss Louise asked me in her sweet southern drawl. “What in God’s name are you pickin’ up rocks for?”
Well, now that was the question. A good question, indeed. I’m sure that to Miss Louise (a life-long resident of the mountains) it must have been as baffling to her as it is for me (a close-to-the-ocean resident) to see people gathering shells from the sand on the beach. There’s at least a million of them. They are there every single day and the next tide will bring a million more to choose from. What are people going to do with them, anyway, when they look so pretty where they are, right there among the millions of their kind on the beach?
I finally know. Each of us are attracted to certain things that we encounter on this beautiful planet full of the billions of aspects that comprise it. We want to keep and hold onto the aspects that we are drawn to as a souvenir of the experience it gives us. And what if, for just a moment, we could perceive these collected items as not just objects, but representations of the real emotions that we choose to experience?
What if rocks and stones were representations of fear and doubt? And if this were true, exactly how long would one person need to continue selecting and keeping them until their meaning and intended purpose could become just a distant memory, and no longer a part of one person’s current experience? A day? A week? A month?
What about years? In my case, I’d say that it is about 49 of them. If I were to include past lives, the amount of time I’ve put into getting to know the rocky aspect of things would make it somewhere around a couple thousand years. Basically, I have been diligently collecting the cumbersome experiences that include the aspects of fear and doubt for what amounts to several lifetimes. Every pouch, pocketful and backpack full of rocks that I have ever carried for any length of time could potentially be added together to create quite the substantial pile of rock. I’m thinking it resembles a mountain.
Over ten years ago, I heard a sermon that was given by Reverend Bob Marshall, pastor of the Unity Church Of Christianity. He was describing what to do when fearful thoughts crossed our minds. He used the example of the frightening scenarios that parents visualize when their teenager is out with the car, and the child has yet to return a phone call to the parents updating them on their status. Reverend Bob indicated that although these frightening thoughts are a normal occurrence in the mindset of a parent, we often magnify their potential by attempting to dismiss these thoughts in a panic. We say, “Oh my God, I cannot believe that I just thought that!” and end up trying desperately to pretend that we didn’t allow the thought to cross our mind at all. This panicked response often amplifies the worried state we are in already, essentially feeding it with additional negative energy.
Reverend Bob offered the suggestion that it may be more productive to stop for a moment after we entertain an unwanted thought and give ourselves some time to acknowledge it. He recommended recognizing the fearful thought long enough to realize that it is unwanted so that you can move on in a rational manner. I can’t remember his exact phrasing after that, but I distinctly recall that it included the word “choice.” Reverend Bob was offering us the idea that instead of trying to fight off frightening thoughts that we encounter, perhaps we might focus on them just long enough to really get the FEEL of them before making a decision that we no longer will allow thoughts like this to dominate our personal experience. This would be much like giving yourself adequate time and sufficient details in order to make an informed choice between two opposing thoughts.
So what in the hell does this have to do with rocks?
I believe that I’ve been collecting rocks as aspects of doubt and tucking them away in a souvenir plie without ever allowing myself to just FEEL the actual vibrational weight of them.
Most of the experts who write books and conduct seminars on the Law of Attraction express the importance of positive thinking. They suggest that we invest our energy into finding the silver lining among every circumstance of our lives. They promise that even just a little bit of effort to seek a positive outlook will increase our chances in manifesting desirable experiences.
This may be true in theory, but rather difficult in practice. I am a devout Pollyanna and professed advocate of the half-full glass. But I understand the reality in trying to focus on feeling like the picture of health when your head is throbbing violently. Or how fun it must be to try and look at the bright side of a failing relationship. Or how easy it must be to locate a glimmer of hope after receiving a notice of foreclosure on your family home. As members of this enormous planet of unlimited contrast, are we not entitled to experience our pain?
Exactly how long is long enough for these unpleasant vibrational energies to impart their wisdom on our soul? How deeply must one experience these undesirable aspects before the choice to move on is clear? The answer is as individual as we are. It is, without exception, relative to the terms that each and every one of us determines in order to reach our own desired level of understanding.
Apparently, I have chosen the thousand-year plan. It has taken me approximately that long to surrender to my fears and stop fighting the aspects of doubt that I have held in some sort of enshrined collection to gaze upon. I believe that I have gathered quite a sufficient supply. It is more than enough for me to completely, deeply, and most profoundly acknowledge and allow the full weight of its impact to be felt. After a thousand years, the mountain has finally reached the level of understanding that I require in order to move on.
Please don’t bring me any more interesting rocks that you picked up for me while you were on vacation. Attractive as they may be, those beautiful rocks are just as appealing right where they are. I appreciate the thought, but my rock collecting days are over.
