WORRY STONE

       They call it a worry stone. It sits on my desk, most of the time, and I occasionally pick it up to idly rub my thumb over the concave sides. Oval with narrow sides, it is polished and smooth to the touch. This particular stone is a mix of grey tones with rusty-brown colours. I hold it in my hand and rub my thumb back and forth in the hollows of the sides, or just fondle it gently, pausing now and then to look at it. Surprisingly, to me at least, it does indeed produce a calming effect.

       I bought this stone in a store that specializes in unusual and exotic goods one day after having lunch with my closest friend, Margo. It was cold that day, with a modest but chilling wind and random flakes of snow blowing about, as we crossed the road to the store. After browsing for awhile, and each of us making our small purchases, we re-crossed the busy street. I recall saying that it was not really that cold, then adding that if I kept saying that I might be able to convince myself it was true. Margo chuckled.

       That is the interesting thing about objects like this piece of rock. They remind me of other times and other places and other experiences. A piece of rock like my worry stone can bring to mind vivid memories of a happy hour or two over lunch and exploring a new store with someone close, or long ago visions of more painful, but also pleasant, times.

       We used to throw stones at each other, or any worthy target, when I was a kid. The trick was not to get hit by the ones thrown at you, which I often did. Later in life I went west for a summer and climbed rocks. Those memories are vivid too. For some, a piece of music will take them back to times and experiences fondly remembered, or wished forgotten, but for me it is the simple piece of polished stone on my desk that is the key to so many forgotten experiences. They call it a worry stone. I call it a memory of my life.