Talking to Stones
Talking to Stones
(Creative Nonfiction) 'One man talks to the stones. Pleads with them. “Please fit," he says. "I need you to fit, please,” as if his desperation will have any effect on cold, hard circumstance.'
I walk down the serpentine stairs lined with exotic red, purple, and black flowers, a heavy stone balanced in each hand. The stones are cold and covered with powder blue dust. I am hot and red, my legs like lead. There is a rhythm to this work. Rhythm can get you through almost anything.
I arrive at my pile of rocks and squat over them like a bird protecting her nest. I guard them from the other wall-building men. Though I would willingly share if asked, I prefer to keep what is mine, mine. We are all eager to solve this large puzzle but are not doing it together.
I get to know each stone, its shape: base, brick, cap, useless triangular chunk, bit of bubble gum. I run my hand over each stone’s face and decide which is beautiful enough to show the world.
The hours fly by like minutes as I stand and squat; build, tear down, and build again; arrange and rearrange. As I work, I listen to the cry of the red-tailed hawk and occasionally catch a glimpse of a pair circling against the sky’s shifting background; sometimes impossibly blue, sometimes cloud-speckled, sometimes a drab fog-laden blanket.
I break concrete, brick, and rock into smaller and smaller pieces with a sledgehammer to make backfill for the wall. Demolish layers of East Bay clay. Disturb mycorrhiza, spiders, roly-poly bugs, centipedes, and salamanders. Step on plants. Cut away foliage. Destroy in order to create.
I am a giant in this village. One strike and my pickaxe starts a war. A swarm of ants bursts forth from the Earth, scattering in all directions to escape the invasion. How different they look from the endless mechanical line of drones I see at home, in my kitchen.
There is one man who talks to the stones. Pleads with them. “Please fit,” he says, I need you to fit, please,” as if his desperation will have any effect on cold, hard circumstance.
I think of each stone as an aspect of myself, of my life. There are so many! And each so heavy. Only my repetitive labor, my faith, and trial and error will show me how they fit together.
Building a flat, strong, level wall from a pile of imperfect stones feels impossible until it’s done. These multi-faceted complexities are conceived of the Earth’s explosive chaos. They are wild, odd, and difficult to arrange. They are a burden.
It is my job to cobble them together, to order them, and make them not only functional, but beautiful. Nothing about it is easy and the result will never, ever be perfect. If I try to make it so, I might go mad from pleading, begging, attempting to reason with the stones.