stones, to me, hold stories. they are not necessarily living. they cannot grow. but i imagine that they are great listeners. like rocks in the desert might absorb an immense amount of water if given the chance, i imagine that stones soak up the stories around them….stories of men and of the land. stories of love, of tragedy, of life.

i imagine that they know the stories of the shores, of the forests, of the waters and hillsides upon which they reside. that they are a part of the groans of creation. and that they are telling the stories…just as forests hold the secrets of the creatures buried in their burrows and roots and humus. and as the walls of a place would spill over its history if it could but speak. so the stones bear the records of their places. sitting silently as resident historians.

maybe if we sit still long enough upon a stone or a forest floor, we’ll hear the whispers of the stories they hold. the truth in the legends of that forest or hillside, descriptions of the people that have walked along these same paths, the narrative of this space or the myths of the seas that wash over it. maybe they would exaggerate and tell great tales of adventure and romance, or weave morals into their telling of the tragedies they have witnessed. maybe these whispers would be simply factual, yet beautiful. maybe it would help us become more connected to the history of the Story that spans this world of ours…

….or at least inspire us to become better listeners ourselves.

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