The earth’s stage at the start of the pandemic was a very different setting from what we know now. When folks started quietly slipping out of their homes to get a breath of fresh air in the spring of 2020, we were keenly in tune with both the fragility of life and the fear of the unknown.
For me, the distanced walks down a woodsy path or an abandoned beach became the medicine of sanity, both physically and mentally. I took to seeking out a unique rock to ‘mark’ each journey no matter how brief. Once home, as I maneuvered to balance them in simple cairns around our property, I was reminded again and again of the fragility of life.
Fast forward, through winter and into spring a year later. Bringing the stones back out from where they’d been stored reminded me of how we too often tuck our truths aside to revisit at a later time. Back in the sunshine, no longer needing protection from the harsh elements, I was taken aback by this profound passage of time.
Moments flow into each other leaving us to vaguely reminisce about passing time, but we often miss lessons taught. For me, this past year’s lessons came offering their harshest pieces of wisdom without the balance of hugs and physical connectedness which truly can be the glue of relationship.
My truth? That despite the fact I “know so much more” about the world than I did prior to us shutting down, I have experienced the realness of NOT KNOWING … so much more profoundly.
Ideas and approaches in education that as a veteran and semi-retired educator I was ready to pass on, now leave me wondering if they’re enough. The pressing needs around us keep taunting me to dig deeper… to ask more than tell.
Family connections, normally reinforced by regular ‘revisits’ seem more distant than the miles between us and make it difficult to fathom how to rebuild.
The rocks don’t stack the same as they once did, a short 15 months ago. In my heart, I know that this is not a bad thing. I also keenly recognize that restacking them in a manner that will be balanced for everyone, is no small task.
I never ‘marked the stones’ upon my return home as I had planned. I wanted to know where I’d been and what each travel had offered up to me. Now, I see the providence in that omission.
The stones are not ‘a lesson.’
They represent us, with all our nooks and crannies, that sometimes fit well together, and sometimes cause us to tumble down with crashing noise. But just as I continue to rebuild every cairn that tumbles, we must persevere in rebuilding with what we have; always looking at all sides and figuring out together how we can make beauty and a solid foundation out of what we have been given.
