Why do I love rocks so much? I’m not sure, but they’ve always been the apple (or stone) of my eye: big rocks, little rocks, edgy rocks, round rocks, rocks with speckles, rocks that shine, and many other matter of rock that rolls my way. So it’s no wonder that I love going to the shores of any body of water where the rocks are dazzling and on the move.
Lake Superior sports rock supreme hunting grounds. There’s agate everywhere, not to mention sea glass (which I love almost as much as rocks), and an outrageous variety of color (black, pink, green, brown, orange, red, blue, rust, white and more) as well as shape (globe, triangle, squiggle, disk and more). There’s egg-shaped rocks, polka-dotted rocks, brown rocks with red and gray swirls, striped stones and tiny glass-like rust pebbles. It’s a
rock lover’s dream and dreaming ground.
I sat on various beaches and dug through the rocks, finding an occasional one that called to me, “Put me in your pocket, and take me to Kansas. I promise not to tell anyone,” and so I did. Despite the weight of carrying a handful of rocks here, a stone as large as a lemon there, and many in between, the rocks lightened me up. There’s something liberating about touching, holding something that has endured hundreds or thousands of years, carrying time in its curves and colors as I carry it home in my time.
I also found that photographing rocks, under and out of water, was a marvelous way to capture the way they compose themselves together. The more I photographed, the more I saw frame after frame of interesting patterns, an infinity of rock quilt squares I could look at from many angles to change what belongs with what.
Now that I’m home with my little pile of rocks, I will keep them close, reaching into the rocks every so often to pull one out, marvel at what story it tells me, and even more, what stories it carries that I’ll never know as I feel its weight in my palm.