Remembering

When I put my raincoat on to walk in town this morning, I found a small stone in one of the pockets. I’d forgotten about it and wondered why I’d kept it in the first place. It’s just a plain old stone. Nothing special. But as I walked in town and turned it over and over again in my hand, it reminded me of skipping stones across the lake where we spent our summers as kids. Those were happy, innocent days. Then I remembered where I’d found the stone, and the drive I’d taken a couple of weeks ago: Route 20 west over the Coastal Mountains, dense forest on both sides of the road, then suddenly, the Pacific Ocean – nearly half the planet – ahead of me like a revelation as I came over the ridge into Newport, Oregon.

Five minutes later, the beach was mostly empty. I walked for miles and forgot about humanity for a while. I felt the wind again, the sun on my face, the rhythm and power of the ocean coming and going, and it occurred to me that the reason I’d kept the stone was its roundness, the smoothness that’s come from thousands of years of being tossed around.