A dancing spring breeze created a chill in the air. Warm sun came from behind the clouds, lightening and brightening the early morning. Where once snow lay, grasses have now sprung upward, and a few flowers called to the bees to start the spring ritual. A single dandelion landed on a weathered and worn stone.
“Oh, you lucky thing!” stated the garbled and weary stone. “To be you! To flit and fly on the lightest breeze. Why, you could touch the sun if you wanted to.” Rumbling sighs took the sprightly seed by surprise.
“I am stuck,” the gregarious stone muttered. “I was formed from the disastrous chaos of an eruption, and for a brief moment, I almost touched the sky. But alas, an earth-shaking moment toppled me from my place in the sun and rolled me down through storm and flood until I reached this very spot. Here I lay. Here I have laid since that day. I am stuck.”
The sprightly seed did not know how to comfort the sad stone. “How long have you laid here?”
The stubborn stone thought for a moment. “The mighty pine whose shade we are bathed in, I saw the falling of the very cone from which it was born. That stream gurgling past us, I was here when it was but a misguided spring. I was here when there was nothing but grass and silence.” It rumbled sadly but pressed on. “I wish for a life of adventure! I wish for movement and change. You are so very lucky.”
The empathetic dandelion thought over the stone’s plight and very gently began, “My friend, you are the lucky one. You have this peaceful valley with life all around you. You know the stories of these trees, of the water itself. You know the comings and goings of the seasons, of the winds and rain. Everything begins and ends, only you remain. You are the keeper of this space.”
The steady rock took a few moments to understand. “But freedom…”
Fiery seedpod shot back. “Freedom comes with costs. I have no control over how far I fly. I don’t know if I will have a few seconds or a few days in one place. I do soar, and it is wondrous, but I don’t know where I will land. It may be into fire, into a freezing lake, into a rocky path. I may be a meal for some winged predator; I have no control. Freedom comes with costs. What I wouldn’t give to stay here with you, watching this valley become. Instead, I am at the mercy of the slightest breath of wind.”
The weathered rock finally realized he wasn’t stuck. There was freedom in a lifetime of presence. There was freedom in the ability to observe and relate and remember. There was freedom in being a voice for the space that had grown and decayed over and over until it had become what it was at that moment. “You’re right,” the stone exclaimed, but alas the dandelion was gone, free falling on the last breeze.
