balancing act

There is a place on the ridge-line trail at the Grand Canyon where you round a corner and there are hundreds of stacks of rocks. It is a holy place and holds an energy that is palatable.

I like rocks. That, I think, is a bit of an understatement. I bring them from my hikes, my travels. I can tell you which ones came from the Alsek River in Alaska, or the upper Salmon in Idaho. I know the ones from the Oregon coast line and the one my friend Steve told me looked like a cow pie that I picked up on a trail near Seven Springs, just north and east of the city.

Not all of them are stackable, but the ones that are, I take the time to work with. To get them to balance, to act as a lightening rod for for whatever positive force is out there looking for a safe passage into the good cool earth. There is a beauty in this stack. The rock on top from Idaho, the thin one, third from the top, from Alaska (when you hold it to the light it has wave lines of iridescence).

I've had a quiet weekend. Like these rocks, I feel precariously stacked.