It has been my experience that mystery often declares itself in the most mundane of things. For instance, stones. You bend down and pick up a stone, or walk by and kick one. Skim a flat one on the rivertop. Hike a trail, tripping on a massive rock, semi-submerged.
But never in any of those moments do you stop to consider how it is that this particular thing got to be in the shape it is in. What forces made it small, somewhat rounded and smooth. Others jagged. This one is too heavy to lift. Another is in your pocket.
Some are re-fashioned to signify lifelong commitment to another person.
Is all sand a broken-up, bigger stone? If so, there is really nothing on earth as fascinating as that.
And yet we, who strut about for seventy or so years, invent so many stories about who we are. Who we were before this. Who we will be afterwards.
Stones, the ones we treasure, pick up, skip, and kick -- smiling, if they could.
Saying, as an old man mortars the last one into his fireplace hearth:
If you only knew what I am.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2014 --