My mom grew up rock hunting. My grandparents would take me. The rock in the lap of a little sculpture (I picked up at a second hand store) is a rock I found when I was rock hunting with my grandparents years ago near Stillwater, Minnesota. I can still remember my Grandpa’s low chuckle of delight as I dug it out of the rocky hillside. An agate, yes, it was and is..
I wonder now if he saw it before me and let me find it. I remember we would spit on the rocks to see what they looked like. With agates you usually don’t see the striations at first–just the rough outer covering.
In out little indoor fountain, I have put some of the agates and rocks my Grandpa polished. The one pictured here was quite a find, I realize again. I forgot about it for many years and only found it again when my parents were cleaning out before they moved. I recognized it right away. I knew it was the one not just by memory, but also that it had never been polished.
A few days ago, I took it out of our fountain and put it in the lap of the sculpture, turning it with the striations hidden. Now it is not obviously covered with dirt, but it is similar to what I saw when I found it.
There has been lots of really heavy stuff going on in our family lately. The rock symbolized that to me, but also more. The beauty is there but hidden. Hope.
As I look at again today–Holy Saturday–I see a new symbolism. The rock, the tomb. I am trying to sit with that today. Sit with the heaviness. Sit with the unknown. Sit with the sadness, without jumping ahead to Easter. Sitting, however, with hope.
Blessings, All!
Christine
