skiddle – to throw flat stones so that they skim on the surface of water (Galloway)
Robert Macfarlane in Landmarks
Did you ever skip stones as a child? We did; my father was a consummate stone skipper. He could make a pebble skitter across water seven times. I think my best is about four (although my stones sink about as often as they skip). There’s an addictive quality to the game, picking up stone after stone, trying to make it skip just one more time than the one before.
Earlier in the week, I imagined a stone in my hand, imagined the weight of it, cold against my skin. I pictured myself stepping forward and flicking it out into the water, watching it bounce and sink. And in that imagining, I noticed something. There are thoughts that I pick up, over and over again. I hold them in awareness, feel their weight, their familiar texture and shape. I throw them out and watch them dance and sink again beneath the surface of that awareness. I watch the ripples of those thoughts widen and run into other thoughts. Then I pick them up, and repeat the process. It’s comfortable in some sense. I can let my thoughts slide easily over the tracks I’ve created for them, but those tracks don’t lead anywhere.
There is another image I associate with stones: a cairn, a neat stack of small rocks created by people walking a path, to help others on the same path in finding their way. I wonder if I can put my stone thoughts to such use. Can I stack them with care, make a beacon for myself to follow so that they point a way forward? This requires effort. I must break with established patterns and leave the thoughts behind so that I can explore new territory, go somewhere I’ve not been before.
(On the poetry page you will find a poem that I wrote in reflection on this.)