Fiction: Storied rocks

In case you have been wondering, the whistle I carved out of a willow branch has yellowed and dried into a stiff carcass of what was the notion of a tree. I keep it on the mantle next to the heart rocks and autumn leaves and smooth river stones that you I we collected on this journey. 

I am weighed down with the heaviness of hearts broken out of granite and shale. 

You are my heart and I hold your weight in my hand, craggy and cold, warming to my touch. 

If I could skip these stones over water, over the bay where we sat, feet in the sand, faces shining up to the full moon overhead, would the rocks sink to the bottom? 

Would they find a firm place in the muck and seagrass or would they toss along with the broken beer bottles and baby shoes and lost wedding rings? 

Would they become sand? 

The stories they could tell of warm pockets and well lined hands, of being witness to lovemaking in tents under the stars, of hawks screeching overhead and tiny ants crawling over imagined backbones.

All these stories crumbling into fragments, each grain a word, a sigh, the flip of a hand as you walked away. At the bottom of the ocean, all our stories mix and mingle, our worn heart rocks become a shifting solid ground. 

A home for Others in the darkness. 

Finally home.

Get Storied

I see him every morning.

He appears before my tea is ready, between my sun salutations and watering of the rosemary and peas. Sometimes I see him walk to his spot, but most of the time he is just there: a boardshorts-wearing fixture next to the catamarans and seaweed resting on the sand.

He is sleeping now, cloth over his face, body tilted in a fetal position away from the climbing sun. Yesterday I watched the seagulls flock around him as he ate out of a plastic bag. Somebody's leftover sandwich? A burrito? Crackers from a cocktail party he threw last night?
I have not seen his face up close. I squint and make out a pale mustache on a tanned face. He must be older. Is he homeless? Where does he spend the night? But he doesn’t have much with him- just a simple backpack, a sweater, a baseball cap. Does he live nearby?

Why does he come to this beach everyday, settling in precisely the same spot to stare out at the bay, the gulls, the airplanes screaming overhead? Is it his communion with nature? Or is it simply the least awful place to sleep the day away after wandering through the night? Is this a choice?

He hasn’t always been here. This is a new thing. Months of a new thing, but my view was void of mustachoed sleepers until relatively recently. The moms with their strollers and running pants and cell phones all in simultaneous use ignore him. The hung-over muscle-y boys don’t give him a second glance as they recount the previous night’s adventures on Garnet beach-cruising on by. The dogs occasionally circle him wanting to play but their owners cut the frolicking short, apologizing while grabbing at collars, their bodies question marks against the shimmering water.

He has a story. I am sure of it.

We all have stories of course. Why does he seem like such a mystery? Do I have the courage to ask? He is a part of my life, my routine, now. I feel obligated to learn more about the face I see (or squint to see) everyday, right?

But that might lead to me becoming more curious about the other folks I see everyday. The man who cleans the common areas with chokingly strong cleaners and a pleasant smile. How did he get that scar on his temple? My neighbor above whose high heals I hear clomping above me long before I see her walk in front of my window to the garage every morning. Where does she go? Is she happy with her job? The barista at 976. What is she studying between frothing up lattes?

The list goes on and on. How do I have time to listen to all these stories? I have things to learn, work to accomplish, places to drive to where I will do lots and lots of stuff. Important stuff.

For my own well being, how can I not slow down and ask, listen to these stories?
They are my stories too.
We all have stories, we all ARE stories.
We complete one another’s chapters, novels, volumes.

Let’s write the world together.
It begins by listening.
And that begins by asking.
Even just a name.

This is my dare to myself: get involved, get storied.