From Tracie: Stone's Refusal from Kris at Pretty All True

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Stone's Refusal from Kris at Pretty All True

Today I have a present for you, my readers. It is a guest post from Kris at Pretty All True.

If you haven't been reading her, you have missed moments like this:
-The time she wrote about Mr. Rogers and made me cry. In a good way.
-This is her one year blog anniversary post, where she gave insight into how she remembers all the great conversations that she shares on her blog. Also, there is cake
-Read this, and make sure you bring tissues.
-Finally, lest you think that she is all about making people cry everyday...she is not. And this proves it, because trust me, kidney stones have never been this funny.

Before you go reading all of those (and you really do want to, I promise!), here is something that she wrote just for you.....

Pretty All True


Stone’s Refusal – By Kris

I was reading a poem the other day and thought to myself, “Oh, I remember that song.”

I held my hand in the air before me to imagine the missing stone. Cupped my hand to hold the stone that wasn’t there. Felt its imaginary heft against my palm.

Remembered.

A walk along a black sand beach. The sand turns to stones beneath my feet. A million smoothened rounded stones of goose-egg size. As the water surges and then recedes, there is the most amazing and beautiful sound.

The sound of a million whispers. Musical and floating in the air. . . a million whispered greetings and farewells as the water caresses and pulses over the stones. The stones speak as individuals and as a group, the depths and highs of their voices joining as one in a chorus of sibilant shushing secret truth.

I am entranced.

I listen to the whispers. I close my eyes as the waves spill against my feet. I close my eyes and listen as the stones upon which I stand tell their story. I try to hold the sound within my mind. I want to have this sound. I want to own these whispers.

These are the whispers of forever. These are the whispers of a promised forever tempered by the acceptance of impermanence. These are the whispers of the universe.

That these words have been spoken a million times without my awareness. . . I am heartbroken that I have missed all that has come before.

I want to hear this song for the rest of whatever portion of forever I am granted.

I want to hear this song.

I bend to pick up a single stone, and as I do, the song of this particular stone is silenced.

It is an oblong stone. Dark and gray. A stone pitted and ravaged and left with small cavernous bits of emptiness.

A stone forged by fire.

Molten lava flowed and gas was trapped within. The gas escaped as the lava cooled, forming holes and cavities in the young stone’s surface. Those holes make the stone weaker than it might otherwise be. Those holes make the stone vulnerable to the flow of the outside world.

But those holes allow the stone to sing.

I bend to replace the stone. It joins in the chorus. The water flows over the stones and into every hole and crevice and empty space. It presses its heavy silver self into the stones. The stones accept the water . . . welcome it in . . . sing of the welcoming as empty is filled.

Only so far and then there is refusal. A sighing whispered claiming of identity.

Only this far and no farther.

I am stone.

The water drains away and the stones sing gorgeously of the refusal even as they gather breath to allow their empty spaces to be filled again.

I listen to the repeated exquisite song of acceptance and refusal.

Of weakness and then strength.

Of weakness that brings gifts.

I brush tears from my eyes.

I did not know such a song existed.

A song for me.

I want to sing this song.

I am stone.

Forged by fire.

Filled with small holes and imperfections that exploded within me when I was young.

My imperfections and empty spaces make me weaker than I might otherwise be.

I am more vulnerable to the press of the outside world than I might wish to be.

But my empty spaces and vulnerabilities allow me to sing.

A whispered song.

Life presses into me. Presses its heavy silver self into my spaces. Fills me up.

I accept and sing the song of that acceptance.

But this far and no farther.

There is refusal.

And I sing that song as well.

I am stone.

I whisper.

I sing.

I refuse.

Water is heavy silver over stone.
Water is heavy silver over stone’s
Refusal. It does not fall. It fills. It flows
Every crevice, every fault of the stone,
Every hollow. River does not run.
River presses its heavy silver self
Down into stone and stone refuses.


What runs,
Swirling and leaping into sun, is stone’s
Refusal of the river, not the river.


-- What any lover learns, by Archibald MacLeish




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17 comments:

  1. Kris, Thank you for sharing this here. It is so beautiful.

    I love the idea of weakness that brings gifts, of imperfections and vulnerabilities and empty spaces that allow song.

    I sing that song as well.

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  2. This:

    "That these words have been spoken a million times without my awareness. . . I am heartbroken that I have missed all that has come before.

    I want to hear this song for the rest of whatever portion of forever I am granted"

    is gorgeous.

    Thank you Tracie. And Kris.

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  3. Kris, damn, you can write. That's powerful stuff on a Wednesday morning.

    Wow. Just wow.

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  4. You climb into my heart and mind when you write like this. Words like this make me fall even further in love with you.

    This piece, in particular, is gorgeous:

    "I listen to the repeated exquisite song of acceptance and refusal.

    Of weakness and then strength.

    Of weakness that brings gifts.

    I brush tears from my eyes.

    I did not know such a song existed.

    A song for me.

    I want to sing this song."

    It is your song to sing, Kris. It really is.
    Much love to you, my beautiful friend.

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  5. I wish you could read my heart, and not the feeble attempts in this little box.

    Yes, to all of it: to the breaking down to make room for growth, to the brush fire to clear out the unnecessary or the robbers of life.

    Forged by the fire, I see it. I wish you could see what I feel right now, for these words.

    Thank you.

    I am changed, every time I leave you, Kris.

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  6. Kris, yes.
    We see.
    We hear.

    We are.

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  7. Kris

    I (too) am more vulnerable to the press of the outside world than I might wish to be.

    Exquisite

    that is all

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  8. So happy that you guys have come to read my words over here. Thank you. That means so much to me.

    Love that.

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  9. Kris, that was beautiful! I am in awe of your talents. Seriously. Well done.

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  10. amazing. forged from fire, created with imperfections, those imperfections allowing us to be individuals, individuals who can sing.

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  11. A week of posts that erred on the funny, the irreverent, bristles and poo ;)
    And then the real Kris.
    Here she is, splendid in her outpouring of words.
    More than words.
    Sweet music to our ears.
    Words again, that reach inside us.
    Touch our soul.

    She is that good.

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  12. I really enjoy the way your writing crosses over from narrative to poetry/lyric. I see things in music too. Looking forward to reading more!

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  13. Lovely - truly lovely. I never cease to be amazed by the art behind your writing- whether it is snort funny or heart tugging.

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  14. I do not know this song, this poem.

    I was less for not knowing it.

    I am more now.

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  15. Just lovely. Gave me goose bumps!

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