I have a habit of carrying things with me. This isn’t really in the pack rat sense, but in a way that certain objects get imbued with an energy, a moment, a person, feelings that occupy liminal time and space. In the same way that one can carry emotions, I find myself burdened with these objects, literally filling my pockets with stones.
I was rearranging some altar spaces today and moved this bowl that I use to ash my rosemary bundles after burning them. I set it down and realized that the stone I had placed in its center has been there an extraordinarily long time. It’s a relic from one very specific moment of clarity and calm in what was an otherwise explosively chaotic time. I’m a kind of spiritual person – and finding this stone in that moment felt momentous in a way I couldn’t exactly put my finger on at the time. But it was enough that I walked past it on the beach and, after walking a few yards, had to stop and turn around to go back for it. It needed to be with me for some inexplicable, stupid reason. And today when I looked down at the stone, I felt as if this was the moment I was connected to that day on the beach last year.
When I first picked it up it was smooth, heavy, and fit so precisely in my palm. Now it’s burnt and covered in soot and I don’t think I’ve touched it maybe since sometime last summer.
This week I’m going to bury him. Moving on from headspaces and abusiveness is a really long process sometimes. And after many instances of feeling like I had moved on, and relapsing, and raging, and getting really confused, and coming back around again, this very quiet moment feels like an ending I can believe in. Like a complete sense of mourning far overdue.
I apologize if this is all a little too crunchy and vague post-y for everyone today