Bones, dried kelps, twigs, driftwood, grey stones punctuated with round holes; they are spread out in the little alcove in front of my house. My friend Peter collected these nature’s gifts from various beaches, parks and forests while visiting. He is contemplating how to pass the scrutiny of airport security to take them home to D.C.
The alcove becomes a shrine. A pool of dead leaves swirl about them, making the once empty and useless space all of a sudden beautiful. I bend down to examine each piece, the sea is heavy among them. “The bones are smelly,” says Peter. They are unidentifiable. He is not sure if they are from cow or sheep or deer.
The rain comes in the evening, but the alcove is deep enough to shelter the offering. When Peter leaves I might keep the pieces he can’t carry.
What if each friend who visits me brings a stone or a twig? Is this how a rock garden grows?
Image taken from jazzfolks.com
