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Image by Amr Karoush, wikimedia commons
I’ve written about rocks worth thousands and rocks that cause wars, but there are also rocks more powerful than that. There exists grit so powerful it brings us to our knees, mends our wounds, and breaks our hearts.
One of my earliest memories is of the sand. I was born and raised near the water. I could swim through choppy waves and tricky currents before I could read. These days I hardly swim, but my feet in the sand take me back. It reminds me of my old man teaching us how water was alive and the sand did its bidding. If the sand is hot, the water is not. I was always a little disappointed to be greeted with burning hot sand. Now, on the days where nothing seems to be going right and I feel like giving up, I go to the beach. Every time I leave, I leave feeling more like myself, more like the me who could navigate the chaos.
Mudpies, specifically mud pies with clover flowers and dandelions (when they’re yellow, I do not waste wishes), brought me so much joy! Sinking my hands into well-watered mud and reveling in the magical mixture brought me joy. I can still see it, bright sun interrupted by a few fat clouds, the hose running and a puddle formed (I’m already wiggling my toes in it). Bees buzz overhead. As light breeze sends spring flowers’ scent into the air in an intoxicating rush. That was my sacred space. My garden today is more practical but chaotic enough to bring me these beautiful moments of perfection.
I nearly fell the moment he met me. I was unaccustomed to running in heels, but on a mission from my new boss, I was laser focused on surprisingly disruptive granite pebbles scattered haphazardly, though mostly worn to nothing. There were a few tricksters in their midst. I almost missed one when the deepest rumbling laugh caught me off guard. He caught my arm, and I lost track of pebbles attacking my feet. The dullest graying granite camouflaging on the concrete made a surprising co-conspirator on the day I met my soulmate.
The morning we buried one of the most important men in my world is intricately ingrained in my head. The second the service started, it poured rain so loud it drowned out the wailing and the floods of tears and sorrows. I remember climbing up the graveyard hill, deep sludgy red clay sticking to everything, to everyone. The rain stopped long enough to let us grieve and then gently prodded us to go. I still feel the deep suction of that clay against my shoes when I think of that day. I think about the men who filled in the void until only a muddy mound was left, returning worn body to the earth who cried alongside us. Gone but never apart.
Grit lives with us, within us, and reminds us we’re never alone. Remembering the part the earth plays in the moments that make memories deepens our connection. You may not remember the dust, but the earth is so much more than that: it’s the wind in your hair the day you learned to drive, the singing birds and rustling trees when we finally got the courage to quit that job, and even the cilantro in your teeth when you dared lean into that first kiss. The earth isn’t somewhere we live, it’s a part of us, and we are a part of it. She’s present for every memory and every moment.
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