On Not Breaking Stones

This shipment of stone had some unusually large pieces, several of them wider than the pathway I'm making. Many are outrageously heavy and unwieldy. I'm tempted to smack the big ones with my sweet mini sledgehammer and crack them into smaller pieces. But I just don't have the heart.

I know the stones don't have any awareness or feelings. They don't elicit the sort of compassion or sympathy that living things do. They don't have memories, but if they did the memories would be of a long, cold, dark winter at the bottom of an ancient sea bed. The stones are just very old, and I like them. Being old is cool.



It's slow going--a big jig-saw puzzle with no matching pieces. I found a likely spot for one of the big ones, and I wheeled it into place. I had to adjust the crushed limestone and hope for the best because there would be no scooting around after the piece is down.


I let it go and it fell into place with a thud that shook the entire neighborhood, if not all of Clearwater. Lucky for me that it landed in just the right place, nice and snug.


And later I found a spot for an even heavier one. The stones are all different thickness, and this one is a real fatty. I once owned a Fiat that weighed less, maybe.


It's not done, but the dogs have already decided that the path is very good for zoomies.