Sunday, 15 May 2011
The egg-shaped stone above reminds me a little of a Russian doll. A scarved babushka. Or clouds above a forest. Snow and glaciers. (I'd prefer not to think of it as a rugby ball, but then that's not being realistic, because of course it does look like one.)
Any geologist will tell you that in a stone lies the story of the earth. Molten layers cooling ... soft rock eroding away, harder rock remaining and all of this revealing time's layers.
This stone is a memento, brought back from the edge of the lake after our stay in Te Anau at the beginning of this year. When I look for stones to collect, I try to limit myself to only one or two, otherwise the tally would rapidly approach the ridiculous, with a ton of them in the boot weighing down our small car.
I see a nicer one and pick it up, discarding others, then see another that is superior, or different. I make myself decide. I can't own them all. No, own is not the right word. Borrow. I am a transporter of stones, like a river. Or, going by how many I have gathered over the years, a truck.