There is a visceral calmness in holding
a stone. I found one today that I'm going to keep. It's flat, round
and sort of oblong, the perfect shape for holding in one's hand. I
intend to worry it for a few decades.
That's the real meaning of that word,
by the way, worry. To rub without significant force, in an idle or
incidental way. A rope tied to a dock will worry against it as the
boat to which it is attached rises and falls on the water. Worry is
not an emotion of wrinkled brow and fear, it is that long-term
irritation of something against the soul.
And perhaps that is what a worry stone
is for. To take that rubbing of thoughts and feelings and hold them
for us. A stone can be worried for far longer than a human lifetime
and show little effect besides polishing.
I think that we have used stones long
enough that their use has seeped into our genes. The stone I found
is not suited to taking an edge, but it would make a fine head for a
club or hammer. Picking it up makes me feel the same way it must
have made my ancestors feel a quarter of a million years ago. A bit
safer, a bit more right to be carrying a tool. The original
multi-tool.
My last one (given away years ago) was
a straight grey, which polished under my fingers into a glossy
charcoal color. This one has more of a beige/brown tone to it.
Possibly with a little green, I'm not sure. I look forward to
discovering what it will look like in a decade or so.
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