Several two-story high trees were felled in the woods on the Palisades after Superstorm Sandy; their broad, shallow roots useless against hurricane force winds. A mile into a walk, the massive root ball of one of them faced me, a fallen warrior as majestic in death as in life, lying in state holding a shield decorated in a mesmerizing pattern of intertwined roots and dirt. As I paid my respects, like something out of a fable, the brave knight dared me to steal a heart-shaped stone the size of my fist from the center of his shield. I accepted the dare and slipped the stone into a pocket.
At home, I rinsed off the dirt with warm water and put it on the windowsill to dry where it sat forgotten for a few days. But it lured me back. It fit perfectly in my palm. My thumb and fingers ran over the tawny marbled surface, turning it over and back, instantly soothing.
A jagged buttonhole gash marks the top of one side. On the other, there is a hole next to the left ventricle where scar tissue has formed in the shape of a shark’s tooth. Small pockmarked wounds create an uneven pattern of dots on both sides. Cracks and veins that didn’t create full breaks tell stories from before the storm. It is flawless in its imperfection.
Virginia Woolf committed suicide by filling her pockets with stones and walking into the river. The Hope diamond, one of the most precious and now belonging to the Smithsonian, was said to carry a curse that ended when Harry Winston donated it rather than sell it for profit. Canyons shaped by rivers, pebbles washed up on beaches, desert rock formations, greats like Gibraltar, Uluru, Stonehenge and Plymouth, pyramidal stones—storytellers all.
Hard, smooth and uneven, the umbo I hold pulses with life, the connector between me and the tree and the earth that warmed it. It tells me a story about how that knight held my heart in its fist, keeping it hidden and safe, returning it to me when I was ready, reminding me the consequence of accepting the dare is to risk again.
Divine Ready 