She handed me a stone like she was handing me a bar of gold and something about the gesture felt as if that’s exactly what it was: gold.
We’d not seen each other in months and certainly not spent quality time together in years, but she remembered that I have a fondness for stones that have character. She remembered.
I cradled the stone in both hands. Its smooth surface showed me it was from a beach, where the years of tides rolling over and around it had softened its edges, but not its strength.
Like me, she said.
She remembered. I needed to.
The stone was shaped like the silhouette of a small bird, a duckling, and weighed slightly more. It had a sloped back and flat bottom, with a centre that was gently raised, sloped exactly where the wing of a duckling would flow along its body. One edge of the stone was curved to create the appearance of a rounded head.
The light grey stone would have been unremarkable were it not for the defined darkened grey of that little makeshift head. It was as if a dark fingerprint had left a mark just there, in that spot, as if it had been dipped in water and not yet dried.
I held it in my palms, running the tips of my fingers along the edges. I swear you could smell the water of a cold Canadian lake on that stone, like the smell on my skin after a quick dip in Sturgeon Strait this summer.
Or cooler days, skipping stones across the waves of Georgian Bay. Joy. Simple joy.
I rolled the stone in my hand, transferring it from one to another, turning it gently. I could imagine the grind of the pebbles and sand of rocky terrain that outline the water’s edge, and imagine myself gingerly walking atop the rocks, in search of the perfect stone. This was the perfect stone.
She too understood the absolute necessity of walking barefoot over rocks to the edge of the cold water to retrieve this treasure. And she’d struggle with claiming this stone, because she doesn’t believe in claiming things like nature.
It’s as if she knew the magic this stone would hold for me. Of course she knew. She’s spooky like that.
I held that stone while we walked, sharing news of our careers, our kids, our loves and our plans, confidences kept under the canopy of the forest of the place I’ve called home this past year and a half. Her first visit. My millionth walk. Our joy was the light between the trees.
That stone now rests in a place in my room. It reminds me daily of two key things that I need to be constantly reminded of right now in this period of yet another transition in my life: I can choose to be as buoyant as a duckling on the water, or as heavy as a stone that sinks into the sand.
It’s a choice. I will always (eventually) choose buoyant.
That stone reminds me to allow the current state of events to wash over me, with the reminder I will remain smooth and strong. Buoyant even when life feels heavy. Smooth, even if the world feels sharp. True to my nature and stronger because of it.
That’s who you are, she said.
She remembered.
I will too.
