Growing up on a farm, the spring ritual was to pick rocks.  Mostly the rocks we picked were generic looking and unremarkable.  We spent hours walking up and down every field keeping a sharp eye out for rocks big enough to wreak havoc on the machinery that would follow our tasks.  Every now and again though there would be something beautiful that just had to find its way home.  Considering my family’s obsession with rocks, I’m surprised that more didn’t find their way home. 

One rock looked like a bus and my sister painted it that way.  Another rock was a Wisconsin jade that was beautiful – I don’t know what happened to that one.  Yet another was so unique in form that my second oldest sister took it to a geology professor and had it tested.  My mom still has the rock in her house with a note about what was discovered.

Some of the larger stones were put on the edge of our yard as a decoration.  When my folks moved to Missouri they took those bits (large bits) of Wisconsin with them. 

We no longer farm and those hours walking the fields picking stones are gone.  Our obsession with stones has not gone away though.  Every member of my family has a love for stones.  I know mine are everywhere.  My house has stones in every room much to the dismay of my husband.  I have some in my car, at work, and in my purse.  

When I find a rock that I have to have, it is like an old friend coming home to me.  The rocks offer a comfort and beauty I don’t get elsewhere.  When I buy a new stone, I usually sit with it on my chest while I crochet or read.  I’m imbuing it with my own energy and absorbing its energy.   

Sometimes during the spring I miss those walks, the dirt between my toes, the smell of fresh soil, and discovering pieces of our foundation.  I guess you can take the girl off the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the girl.

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