There is an unexpected break and shards of memory cut through my skin, heat now escaping my curled up hand. You can feel it on the surface, followed by a cool sensation passing through with the lingering of blood rush. The sting brings me down to reality and in an instant am brought back to mortality. There is an itch in the palm of my hand and it bothers me, as though a speck in my eye.
And to think that this happened because I went in search of stone, or stones, I should say. You remember these stones, don’t you? The shiny black ones I gave you one year. There are none like them anywhere else that I know of, which makes them special. But more than that, these stones have come into contact with the prayers of many, not least of all, my own. I made them for you and for all who might happen upon them. From many I chose each one, selecting them singly for their shape, and on each one inscribed a word. Likewise from a vast ocean, I chose only a few words that in my understanding, were particular to your ideal, yet general enough that each word would resonate with any one, at any given moment, however the Spirit called. They would be both vessels and launchpads for prayer.
Mission. Be. Earth. Heart. God. These were (are?) the words I looked for to chant a mantra for myself tonight. And even though they were kept in a vault in a past I do not want to hold on to, I had to find them for the promise of rest they would bring me. Special stones, indeed.
It’s been years since there was such relating between us, years, I regret to say, since we really spoke. Surely you must remember how things were when I gave you the stones? I recall that I was a bolder and perhaps more brazen version of who I am now. I had relatively speaking, recently tasted the fruits of a knowledge and depth I had not known before. Perhaps you experienced similar heights, which is why our dances were synchronised. Do you remember the lightness of my step? Everything was a song and every thing I encountered was like a moment with God. In my heart was a restlessness that opened, though I did not know its name until you gave me the words. You showed me that my thirst was a desire for communion with God and one that I could nurture. You taught me how to pray and to pray as I am, and that I was loved by God, however I was. Do you remember?
I am asking because really, I ask myself. I had nearly forgotten the person I was, and the good that we were, now that I am painted over and over with masks of bravado in an effort to heal. It was only tonight that I remembered the stones since something made me want to know what they had said, yet it was my very search for them that brought me face to face with your memory, like a ghost; a presence hovering in the background, but at the same time, completely invisible. And the truth of it is that this invisibility hurts.
In my search for these precious stones, I was caught without guard, which opened up a sensitive wound. Yet the funny thing is that by holding these stones (or prayers), smooth and close to my skin, will the heat of pain be soothed.
What are other insights can be gained from this story?