An Essay on the Nature of Rocks
A cliff side screams devastation. The life of a rock is beautifully brutal. I’ve never trusted something so concrete - but even pavement crumbles when chains scrape it’s back winter long. Contrary to the way a rock may appear (a foundation, fixed and unchanging) it is truly misunderstood. The rock is the most stubborn of creation. Like God’s rebuke on mankind, the ocean fervently chisels rock over centuries until jagged stones soften to sand. This process is overlooked because it happens over several human life times. Mountains sprout, and we mark their growth like pencil markings on the wall of a kindergarten classroom. Meanwhile, the mighty bodies of water work their existence in order to refine the sharp edges of rocks, with the hope that they’ll be shaped into smooth surfaces.
Some beaches have large stones that cover the landscape. About the size of a fist, the barefoot has trouble making it’s way across. Some are round and irritating to balance on, others are covered in barnacles and would slice open toes with one wrong step. The ocean, dutifully works night and day, attempting to crack the rocks open. If one attempted to sleep on these rocks, they’d find a bruised back when the sun rose. If one tried to walk a mile without shoes on this terrain, they would find either shredded soles, or the arches of the feet curved to the point of severe aching.
Some beaches are filled with white glistening sand, miniature marbles that have been utterly broken and shattered. Now they are at a point where the foot is able to bask in the smooth texture. The first time a pig lays on a bale of straw might have the same sensation as a rough skinned body lying onto smooth sand – utter relief. The ocean sings to the moon in utter contentedness, for here he can relax. Now he waits to make his way by river, closer yet to the base of mountains, to begin chiseling again.
The world has not always been as it is. What it looked like centuries ago is a mystery to me, but I imagine it this way: tundra’s under glassy windows of water; the roots of trees uprooted-make way for the sea! mountains emerge from ocean; volcanoes erupt to form islands; hills collapse in Drum Heller; caves crumble into the abyss, sand hardens into sandstone; pebbles are pounded to dust; the great clockwise gyre all for the cause of some topographical war. The stubbornness of something increases the vanity(fruitlessness) of it's effort.
Humans have hearts stubborn as stones. The heart cries out to be broken over and over, but there is only one force mighty enough to do this. God takes our heart (not the one that pumps blood, but the metaphorical one that directs our eyes) like a jagged rock and cracks it open. It will be cracked open repeatedly until it is small enough, and the surrounding stones are small enough that they act as one body, soft as sand. God dutifully works night and day, calling us to him. Like devastating cliff sides we call out to him to break us in two, to shape us and make us new. He chips away, our hearts aching yet filled with joy, wearing down our jagged edges, until, over great lengths of time they melt into smooth surfaces.
