It could be easy I guess. None of this grasping at a rare chance for rest. Amongst dust and debris the intention is simple, pay attention to what is around you. Take note, and if you feel you have something worth sharing, share it. Continue on. Patience and quiet and frugality. And boredom too, out of which springs the possibility of change. Lasting change, the kind of change that sticks to your skin. Sweat equity. Building something worth promising on
This is just a bunch of rocks, though. Really it's a building that has become a bunch of rocks that has now become a mosaic of sorts. Temporary, like the building that has gone through the process of demolition and crushing up of brick and concrete and ceramic bits into gravel to be used as pathway material, stored as a mound in a parking lot three stories high. The highest hill in Vicksburg Michigan.
I think this room was used to cook down the cotton rags before they were beaten into pulp. Something like that, it's hard to remember what I was told.The trough probably held a large machine at some point. The whole room, and the whole mill for that matter, was full of machinery and noise. Now it sits full of ghosts and quiet, the heavy sounds of a roof being repaired, and the memory of me pushing these rocks together—inspired by the river and terraformed lakes and creeks that powered this place for a century, and fueled by a pressure within myself to move these thousands of rocks—and, after hours of trying, inevitably giving up on my goal of paying attention to each one.
I always seem to be fighting—Fighting to be a participating member in keeping my life buoyant, Working with such diligence that rest becomes work, and work becomes… well, this other sorta thing: a quality of present-ness, curiosity, and also a blur propelled forward by something bigger than me.
Or am I simply running away from my own fragility? My own sensitivity even? Labor as a means of not having to deal with myself. Or as a way of hiding from the people who consistently show up for me. Love y'all.
It's exhausting. In one moment I’m enamored by how the little stones gleam—a little sparkle for the eyes, a feast—and in the very next, a sore lower back, maybe a little negative self-talk: "How about you do something not just for the sake of strengthening your own volition? Ever thought about that?" To which I respond " Only every hour of the day!" And then a battle ensues, Me vs. Me, out here alone in a gravel parking lot, picking up a few thousand colorful rocks, sometimes with skilled efficiency, and other times with such laze that it feels the sun's gaze is going to melt me down right then and there, unable to move, cemented to the rocky earth. A pool of wax in the dirt.
You can float down the Portage River and meet her herons and water lilies and other dear ones. Some may say life is like that. I want to believe that it could be so, but my brief time here has never really felt like that. Love flanked by resentment on a ground of fear or hesitation or anxiety. Amidst privilege, no doubt. Amidst a crowd of folks saying "I wish I could sit and pick rocks out of a pile all day." Do ya though? Do ya really?
I want to believe it could all be that simple. But moving through this life has felt much more grating. At times I feel itchy, and flustered, and flushed with redness to the cheeks, leaving me wanting to retreat, to hide, and find a small cluster I feel comfortable in.
Supposedly the whole of life can feel like a big sigh.