Rocks

I love rocks. It is a love I have kept and nurtured from childhood. Big ones, small ones, all colors and forms. I love them and find them to be beautiful. The strange thing is that I can’t name a single one to type and hated my college geology courses. I have no scientific interest in rocks. The love is purely personal.

From early in my development I could be found wandering away on my hands and knees following a stony path. Rocks carefully examined and sorted into “keepers” and “non-keepers.” If my parents lost sight of me, following a stony trail would inevitably lead to my recapture. I had little interest in swimming when we visited a crystal clear creek near my grandmother’s home in Oklahoma. I would sit motionless examining the rocky bottom, systematically picking up one rock after another for inspection. My movements so fluid and deliberate that I would soon be surrounded by populations of fish, no longer startled by the intruder in their realm.

One of the few gifts for which I ever begged was a rock polisher. I never asked for a doll or a “toy.” I usually wanted books and the like, but never with the overwhelming urgency common to children. My rock polisher was an exception. I wanted it passionately. My parents were used to my unusual ways, but were still not thrilled by my request. Rock polishers are noisy, require replenishment of consumables (grit), can be messy to empty and manage, etc. I didn’t care – I lobbied continuously and quite persuasively for my heart’s desire and was finally rewarded on glorious birthday. And, unlike most children’s passionate desires, mine did not get forgotten and neglected within 3 days. My rock polisher was in continuous use until the motor finally died of old age.

It was only in this last move that I did not cart with me bags and boxes of rocks. It is one of my regular souvenirs of any travel. Even a walk in the park will likely find me with pockets bulging with rocks by day’s end. Each one carefully chosen to remind me of my day’s adventures. A longer trip nearly necessitates the packing of an extra tote for my geological remembrances. My trip to Ireland netted me so many pieces of the Old Sod that I could have started my own Irish Island on my side of the Atlantic.

What is it about rocks that draws me so tightly? Why do I cherish them so dearly? It is not always the “prettiest” that call to me, either. An unusual form, a unique texture, a pleasing pattern, a luster or translucency, an amagam of several types into one harmonious union…I cannot say. But, I am selective. Not all rocks meet my standards. This means, of course, that I must take time to analyze, study, feel, probe, imagine, dream a bit over the candidates before I decide which will pass muster. Only some will receive passage into my pack or pocket. The worst trick played on me by my father involved bags of rocks. It was a rare occasion that my father was required to watch me without my mother. When this would happen, he would stop by a hardware store or pet shop and get a bag of rocks. This would ensure many hours of uninterrupted peace for him, while I celebrated my lithospheric love affair.

I think this is one of the reasons that I love the Southwest. There are so many darn nice rocks. They are big and bold and colorful. It is overwhelming to me when I am out that way. And, pictures just never give full justice to the beauty of the formations. I don’t care what quality of camera one owns, there is something about rocks that defies the lens. Perhaps it is the lack of feel. A picture does not lie in your hand so that you can gauge its temperature, indulge in its heft or delight in its lightness, feel its ridges, caress the smooth surfaces…Perhaps it is the lack of sound. No photograph can convey the sound of the wind along a rocky cliff, the notes produced when you tap a rock against its brethren, the sound of the grass rushing around a lone stone…Images cannot be used for an impromptu Moh’s test, to build a castle, to stand in for space aliens and their craft – Images are poor playthings.

Rocks are a joy to me. I love them and will manifest my love for them at every opportunity. Ahh…to lay again in a field with a cold smooth stone balanced on the tip of my nose…to use shiny stones to secretly communicate with co-conspirators…to create magical jewelry from rocks of power and mystery…too long have I been away from my precious rocks. Time again for an expedition. Perhaps time, also, for a new rock polisher.