One might find rocks in a stream or by the lake, pick them up, turn them over, stack meditatively. One might find thoughts, pick them up, examine, stack them meditatively.
Some of these thought rocks hold uncomfortable ideas. I’d like to see the thoughts when they are there, acknowledge them, transform them. The thoughts have feelings attached. Physical feelings. I think about soothing the physical feelings, think what I’d like to feel instead, and let myself feel that without condemning myself for having uncomfortable thoughts in the first place. I am soothed.
How thankful so many of my thought rocks are gentle. How thankful so many of my thought rocks are ambitious in a good way. How thankful I am I have goals, how thankful I appreciate the goals met, the fun of steps taken in the process of attaining the goals. People call steps milestones; maybe there is something inherently associative with thoughts and rocks.
A guy sent a rock of healing intention over to his friend in Asia. He’d carried that rock in his pocket like a meditation bell, like a singing bowl. Every time he emptied his pocket for the night the rock came out with his keys onto the top of his dresser. Every morning when he put his pants back on, into his pocket the rock went with his keys. Every time he stuck his hand in there, he felt that rock.
The rock was with his keys. What is it about “keystone?”
We’re letting rock remain underground, unbroken, cool. Hot sometimes. How there’s so much loose rock already up in the streams that we can pick up, examine, put in our pockets, put back. About the majesty of mountains, unbroken. About the God of mountains, the gods of the mountains. I call on them to protect themselves. OM.
There’s sand under the boreal forests in Canada, sand everywhere. Sand comes from rock. I’d like that sand to just stand under the stands of trees. I don’t want the stands to be turned over. I call on the stands and the sand to protect itself. I call on the indigenous gods of the sand and the stands to protect themselves. I call on the gods to remember they are infused in our hands. They can keep our hands off the sands, keep keystone keystone without running a pipe through it, without scraping our rakes over it into rubble and cancer.
Without, without, oh, how easy to be *without* pain, without all the scraping and disease.
Without. How easy to be Without so many problems.
Oh, how easy to keep our lungs. How easy to blow our breath into the easy gerbil thrill of wind turbines, those easy tumbling breezes, those easy galloping breezes, those good winds. Those streams through something consonant.
I’m going to put a rock in my pocket, and the thick rock will lie calmly underground. It will be there relatively forever into the future. Sand will be there under stands, relatively forever into the future.