In a small clearing in the woods I discover a pile of rocks and I imagine that each is named for an old story I no longer need to know.
I picture myself tossing them into place, a mound slowly forming as gray stone thuds down upon gray stone, dusty paperbacks tumbling from a cardboard box.
I have lugged them around long enough. They have been read and read again, each turn of the page revealing familiar words and predictable plots, faint notations marking futile efforts to mine new learning.
With a hint of loss I send them to the pile, recalling their past if limited usefulness, and noting with both empathy and surprise just how small they now seem. Immovable boulders reduced to toss-able rocks. Fragments of former truth.
I carry a stone in my pocket. I selected it from a basket of gratitude and blessing. Smooth and black, its rounded edges tell the story of elemental shaping. There is a ridge running along half of one side, an invitational crease, the line of disruption a reminder of possibility. It is my touchstone, the shape of a new story. It comes with me now.
The others I have left behind.
