written: August 23, 2007, after reading April Pulley Sayre’s Stars Beneath Your Bed: The Surprising Story of Dust.
Rocks. I used to not notice them. And if I’m honest, which I am (especially in my writer’s notebook), I still don’t notice them. My grandma does, though. And Tammy. And my brother. (In fact, right now I’m looking at two rocks sitting on my desk that he lugged back from Philmont Boy Scout Ranch when he was 14 just for me.) These people collect rocks. And they see something special in them that most everyone else misses.
Tammy and I were musing about rocks last week. She keeps all of her rocks in a special place. Ever since she told me about her rocks, I’ve wanted to find one for her.
But I keep forgetting to look. I forget to pause and really see. I wonder how I can remember to pause and noticee rocks. It’s a state of mind really, pausing to see. And if I want to be a writer, it’s a state of mind I must develop into second nature. Noticing stuff and connecting it to my life. This is my goal.
Tammy Hess’ Rock Garden. Tammy gave me this photo after our musings on rocks. It’s in my writer’s notebook. Orginally uploaded at Picasa Web Albums.
Unhurried. Finding the magic in the middle of living. Capturing a life of ridiculous grace + raw stories.