Jan. 15th, 2012

elionwyr: (Default)
Sticks and stones lay scattered across the altar-of-sorts that covers the top of my bureau.

They are treasures. If you know their stories.

This bit of charred wood, burnt from below by a fire never seen. We visited tragic Centralia in early winter. Smoke rose from the shriveled trees, from the mostly-condemned roads, and I rescued this scrap of bewildered plant life while my husband stood beside the car.

This bit of sparkly green rock, built from foreign sediment. The man my heart calls 'father' brought this back from the shores of Loch Ness. My child-self was ecstatic. Oh, Nessie, I still dream of finding you..

Here, a small round stone. A humble pebble. It arrived in a padded envelope, sent by a friend who plucked it from Hobbiton itself. I may be a homeless hobbit, but oh, here is a fragment of my fantasy ancestral home.

And there, a small padded stick - a drumstick mismatched to its accompanying bodhran. Adorned by a friend-no-longer with a unique design that blends Irish and Native American styles, the bodhran is tiny and remains unplayed. I'm unsure why the drumstick is here. I touch it, frown, move on.

My hand passes over fossils and bits of shining somethings until it reaches a quartz crystal. Fingers wrap around the stone's coolness, rubbing at its slight length-long flaw.

Last year, at this time, I slept with this crystal in my right hand nearly every night. Curled into a ball, I prayed in please...please let me not be wrong, please help me through this, please let him figure it out...

The history of our planet is written, in part, in its rocks and trees.

And the history of my heart is scattered here, in part, in this collection of sticks and stones.

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