I have always related to stones, thought that somehow, in the kingdom of things, they speak a language. Listen. Listen hard. You’ll hear the water burble over them, the children’s laughter as they toss them here or there.

And look. See those colors, shapes, the veins? What stories might they tell? Where have they been and what might they have housed? How old are they?

Along the beach I pick up little stones, and big ones too, you know, those angular stones, gray usually, with holes and bumps, which I think are bruises from their journeys.

Kind of like us….we have holes in us, sometimes in our hearts, and bruises? Oh, for sure. Where are your bruises? I know where mine are. A stone is hard, yet water has given it a sheen, a coating, a shine on rainy days. When sun beams down upon a stone it seems to smile.

Me too. Hard. Yep, there are places that haven’t been softened yet, but I know that the “sun and water” of my life will touch and change them.

Pick up a stone. Imagine the conversation.