The rock was not an extraordinary rock.  It was not too large or colorful, neither schisty nor sandy nor much lichen or moss.  It was certainly large enough to stand on, even climb, if a couple ladder rungs makes an ascent.  You could stumble into it but not trip over it. One could sit on it, perhaps not fully in comfort, but in a half-lotus already suffering from contortions, it would do.  Its roundedness, though, was not suitable for laying upon should one want to gaze directly into the heavens or mull clouds.  No, the universe was not attainable from this vantage. 

Maybe, like is said, that “the sport chooses the man” or some such axiom, the rock chooses the passer by.  Rocks in general are not transient like folks.  When they do move it is with great destructiveness, or so it would seem.  It appears that they only progress with external influence from forces beyond our ken.  Sometimes, like keys or a wedding ring, they don’t seem to be where we’ve left them.  It makes one wonder if they might just not be animate, moving within dimensions of time we don’t see. 

The lives of rocks and man interface in such strange ways.  Many things about both can be said of the other.  Hard as a rock weathered and chiseled face of marble or heart of stone, indeed there is much personality in rocks and some in people.  Though we rock the baby we don’t hit them with stones.  It is said that David of little stature killed Goliath with a rock and many died on the fields of Ilium from hurled stone because Achilles heart had turned to stone.  The Sanderin thought Stephen should be stoned, and made sure of it.  The rock foundation of our culture might best have been laid upon the philosopher’s stone instead, so say the Kabbalists to this day. 

In the old ways of measurement, often the true measure of a man, it would be in stones, once a weighty matter.  Curiously, we interpose rock and stone.  This is probably not as it is meant to be, or probably not, in years forgotten, when we knew and spoke wisely of our nature with more fullness, how it was.  A rock is made of stone and a stone of rock, is true and both like our selves comprised of time and pressure.  But rocks are not made of stones nor stones of rocks.  There is uniqueness and singularity in their world as well.  We would not belittle some rock looming on the horizon as a stone, though, some magnificent stones, often set in preciousness, are derisively referred to as rocks. 

All rocks are the rock of ages.  That is their substance.  And this rock though unobtrusive may have more than meets the eye.  It could be the tip of a massive form buried from scrutiny.  It could be like a Mormon Rock precursed with Joshua trees now petrified and turned to rock or the Red Rocks south of Denver, maybe even like Uluru, the silent beating heart of Australia. 

Yes, this rock must be a great monolithic massif and this barely notable protrusion must be the crest of some island mount once ruler of some inland sea, the sands of time steadily burying its omnipotence leaving it loveless and impotent.  Once surely, its crest purely white in snowed cap was an inspiring beacon to creatures who may have perceived its monumental importance.  It may have guided them to poetry in their lost language or aligned with some star or past day’s sunrise on an azure sea below.  It may have been the stuff of dreams. 

It may have been worshipped as some god.  Maybe it should be worshipped still, whether this is all that can be grasped or some unseen, some mysticism, something transcendent.  After all, much less tangible gods are met with prostration and flagellation.  God does not need to be noticeably big. We just need a big need to notice god.  It is better that this rock is no longer distracted by turquoise skies and clouds of images.  We can look down on this rock head bowed. 

But of all things a rock can be, it is always a refuge.  Better if a spring flows from some fissure in its tawny hide to a soft pool below, a refuge and oasis, a coconut palm too. At times though as much comfort can be found in a well worn pebble, worn by ancient glacier ice or greasy fingers matters not.  Smooth and cool timeless the touch seems to eradicate care and worry, comforting in times of trouble, not requiring understanding.  One refuge is just being.  Rocks seem good at that. 

A rock is firm.  Its strength is not ductile like steel.  Rock looses to the thinnest paper but dulls the steel shears. Take some grayed granite whetted and glistened by a light mountain rain and beaten by a Christo like artwork of flowing saffron fabric would be a more appropriate conquest to some, maybe bound in climbers nylon cable to boot.  The rock is subdued in either case. 

I’ve slipped, not a very firm understanding, and bloodied my knee and the coarse surface of the rock.  The wound is just a scrape and the pain will pass as will the stain I’ve left to winds and rains.  From up here the world seems small and curiously quiet.  The city surrounding us, me and the rock, seems temporary and illusive.  The rock and I bound by my blood seem to dizzily center the universe.  It spins unknowingly around us.  This speck of dust and the dust from which I came with my chin on my knee pass the time contently.