MEDITATION FOR A PEBBLE

                                    __For my teachers--past, present, and future__

The ocean rocks you, little by little, up onto a beach whose rippling sand looks like fine powdered saffron streaking crushed diamonds.

The gentle sun dries you, warms you. You sigh with relief. At last, you are still. The waves recede. They are on their own journey. Seagulls flap past. They trill mournfully to one another. Yet, they embody joy. They fly off, towards the sun.

You are alone again. This time, your solitude feels companionable.

You are a pebble. Your own weight brings you comfort. Yes, you can be thrown, turned, tossed. But you can also be held.

You are dove-gray, worn more on one side than on the other. A pure white stripe hugs your cool center, like a belt that has no buckle. This stripe sets you apart, adding charm. You look as though an invisisble hand painted you.

While you cannot stand up tall, you can lie flat with ease. You are ease. Seize ease.

Some may say that you are hard. Even you, though, are soft. The water carried you to this pristine beach, caressing you, curving around your contours until you surrendered.

Your memories are of mussel clusters and vague echoes, supple starfish and miniscule pearls.

When a child’s hand scoops you up from the sand, your firm composure comforts the child. She hears your heart.

Your silent modesty invites light that can cast no shadow. When the child sets you on her altar, you remain the same. She, however, is changed.

Each morning, the child traces your stripe with her finger. If you could tell your story in a single sentence, what would that sentence be?

So you recline. You harbor neither hope nor regret. You are touched or not touched, revered or not revered. Words do not hurt you. You neither seek the sun’s heat nor shrink from winter’s cold. If lichen grows across you, you welcome the precious lichen. When lizards congregate around your perimeter, you smile at the lizards’ congregation.

Perhaps the child slips you into her pocket, to take you out with her. And perhaps, along the way, you tumble unnoticed through a hole in her coat pocket, down to the worn, dusty, meandering path.

You lie there, smaller than a footprint. 

You are not lost, wasted, or forgotten. New eyes will sse you. Loving hands will again cradle you. Sweet voices will, once more, praise your distinctive stripe.

Later, the crescent moon rises through silver haze, illuminating you like a star’s mirror. Your narrow stripe glistens. A waking owl swoops above you, softly calling, searching.

The sound resonates delicately through you.

You begin to breathe.