Every summer I gather a few stones from
the beach and keep them in a glass bowl.
Now and again I cover them with water,
and they drink. There’s no question about
this; I put tinfoil over the bowl, tightly,
yet the water disappears. This doesn’t
mean we ever have a conversation, or that
they have the kind of feelings we do, yet
it might mean something. Whatever the
stones are, they don’t lie in the water
and do nothing.

Some of my friends refuse to believe it
happens, even though they’ve seen it. But
a few others—I’ve seen them walking down
the beach holding a few stones, and they
look at them rather more closely now.
Once in a while, I swear, I’ve even heard
one or two of them saying “Hello.”
Which, I think, does no harm to anyone or
anything, does it?

Mary Oliver

I am thinking about what happens to the water in Oliver’s rock jar. I am thinking about rock conversations and rock feelings and rock magic.

I am thinking about the wooden bowl of stones that sits by my desk. Rose quartz, hematite, a worry stone, along with a few others that I purchased when visiting a small shop in Racine with a dear friend. These particular stones were prescribed by the owner of the shop, following a wonderful conversation, to encourage health and peace and balance. That is the stone magic I am talking about. That is the stone magic I believe in.

Each morning I see the stones as I reach for my socks. The stones talk to me, in their way. They remind me about things like breathing, gratitude, friendship, and the like. They are gentle not judgmental, even if I am struggling to start the day. They ground me (which I suppose makes sense because they are from the ground).

Perhaps Oliver waters her stones for the same reason I keep the bowl of stones on my dresser. They are wise in the way the earth sustains life and hopeful in the way that spring emerges from winter. They are beautifully deep and enduring. Conversations with stones feel like safely kept secrets which are gems unto themselves.