The surfaces of things.

I inherited my dad's old rock collection. And by inherited, I mean that I unearthed it from a closet and promptly installed it among my own belongings without asking permission. When I was little I used to spend hours sifting through rocks, collecting ones that interested me... I still collect rocks and pebbles to this very day.

Rocks embody this quiet sort of pantheism that I follow without much of a doctrine. Edward Abbey sort of sums it up here:

“I am pleased enough with the surfaces - in fact they alone seem to me to be of much importance. Such things for example as the grasp of a child's hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of a friend or lover, the silk of a girl's thigh, the sunlight on the rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind - what else is there? What else do we need?”

Sometimes it's easy to forget just how lucky I am to have tactile and visual appreciation of the world around me. The small pebbles I stash in corners of my desk and shelves are a tangible reminder.