The stones have patience. A slow wait. They change with the position of the sun, the precipitation of the rain and the breath of the wind.
The Stone I am talking about was already present to me. And after me she waits patiently. She doesn’t wait for anything. The waiting itself is the art. The simplicity and humility. But not condescending. No.
Stones stand alone, but never alone. Have you ever seen a rock alone? Stones are social. A part of. A pebble was a boulder, a stone was a rock. A rock a mountain. A mountain a planet.
And there you are, steps on the stones. Walking on a planet. A piece of rock surrounding a star.
Everything starts with a touch. My fingers wander over the outer skin of the stone. Some people know how to crack stones to look at their hearts. For now I only know the outside. The shadows that wander over the outside.
I can discover the stone with my own shadow hand. And see how the stone deforms my hand. And whatever I do, my hand forms around the stone, the stone changes my hand.
It’s as if my shadow can identify with the stone more than my own flesh and blood hand. Like an intermediary, my shadow translates the moving world into patient waiting. I follow and trust the waves of my shadow.
I stop. My time is different from that of the stones. And perhaps I can come back later to resume the conversation. The first brief introduction has been made.
