I presume that if you are reading this you have at least a faint idea of what constitutes a rock. If not, please stop reading immediately and consult the Internet (or Becca). This is not about the scientific properties of rocks, which I am sure are numerous and fascinating. Rather, this piece concerns the many other intangible qualities that I have come to associate with rocks during my month here on Chewonki Neck.
Here on the Maine coast, rocks are ubiquitous. All of the points are, in essence, rocky outcroppings, protruding into the bay at the whim of the tides. There are rocks lining the hills and ridges, rocks on the banks of icy streams. Reminiscent of sheep farms long overgrown, there are rocks walls strewn throughout the woods. The rocks seem ancient, rising up from the earth, rounded and speckled, like faded memories of days past. Sometimes, walking alone through the woods, I can almost hear their whispered stories. Though we are transient beings in a constant state of flux, rocks are constant, never changing, ever watching. They have attained a state of stability that we can never dream of.
When my head spins with the endless stream of new experiences and ideas, like to find a rock, preferably on the coast, and write poetry perched on its rough surface. I look out on the bay, listen to the soft sounds of the tides. The white pines sway in the wind and the ice forms fantastic patterns underfoot. I love watching the sunset, love seeing the day end in a mess of color as jumbled and intricate as my thoughts. The points all contain excellent rocks, especially Ideal Point, but none of those are quite the same as my rock. Shaped like a small finger that curls out onto the water, it is an unassuming little rock. Perhaps it is a bit like me. Sitting on that rock beside the sparkling water, time seems to fall away. The chaotic swirl of thought condenses, aided by the ancient stability of a rock. The world focuses in on my scratching pen. Once I came to watch the sunset at my rock. I’m not sure how I managed not to notice the descending darkness, but I remember stumbling through the woods in darkness, not quite sure which way led home.
Maybe the reason I am so fond of rocks is that they possess all the qualities I seem to lack. As a human, I am infinitely changeable. The environment around me is constantly molding my mind. Rocks, on the other hand, are oblivious to external influence. They are to the earth like love, death, and desire are to the human psyche. No one knows quite where they originated, but we know they are here to stay. Winds may howl, tides may swirl, rain may pour; the rocks can weather any storm. They are as old as time, and their stories echo through the frosty woods. Listen closely and you may hear their whispers.
-Asha, Sunset High School, OR