Emerging Stones

Once a rock, now a stone — Transformation by Wes Dahlberg
— © 2024 Craig Dahlberg

Well past his 80th year, my father hopped along the rocks on the beach just out of reach of sloshing waves, searching for the next face peering from along the shore. Each rock he selected became his canvas. But his art would not hold the mundane image of a stylized tree or a vivid green frog painted to adorn a doorstop. Instead, he peered deeply into the contours and subtle colorations to unlock what, or who, was already there, waiting to be discovered.

“There! Can you see him? And look, over his shoulder, there’s his daughter embracing her puppy,” he would describe. And of course, we all said we did, even if we had no clue what image and story the blank rock actually contained.

To the last day I pushed my father’s wheelchair through the parking lot, he required me to stop to review the subtleties of granite stones in the outside walls of his assisted living residence to identify imaginary faces and scenes locked within the patterns of the stones, staring back at us. What were they saying to us? Can you hear them? Can you see them? Then, “Forward!” my father would have declared, his eye ever searching onward, outward, and inward to set free the next stone captive.

Just when does a rock become a stone? A rock lies unused in a quarry or unnoticed beside a road or pathway; a rock serves no particular intention or use. However, a rock becomes a stone when it is put to a purpose. The rock gives birth to a stone. We christen a stone when we ennoble it to possess a specific use. A rock, for example, converts into a stone when it becomes part of a stone wall to keep out intruders, or when a rock is re-purposed as cobblestone, transformed into a pathway for our use.

By the time of his passing at 106 years old on November 1 of 2023, my father had transformed hundreds of rocks into stones, releasing the faces of the captives held within them. The subtle detail that he added with his horsehair paintbrush—no cutting instruments allowed—defined and refined them, drawing the images out and giving them their first breath.

When he finally departed, Dad’s death removed my last bit of scaffolding to the former generation. He was the last survivor of my parents’ generation. Gone were his wife, her parents, his parents, his brother, his nephew, his in-law parents and brothers and sisters. All that was left is the next generation: my brother and myself. Like Dad’s stones, we now stood on the top shelf, placeholders for now, for our generation and the ones to come. That top tier is a windier place, unprotected now that Dad is gone. We feel less protected from the forces of nature that now seem colder and damper, with our face against the wind. It is for us, now, to repeat “Forward!”

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On a boring, routine night of tedious sheep-tending chores, a young shepherd played hacky sack with his sheep’s droppings. He checked for consistency and coloration as he bounced the dung off one foot to the other and back again. Discoloration or soft poop would indicate problems. Achingly monotonous, tending sheep provided plenty of opportunity to amuse himself and to contemplate his place in the world. His notions drifted in the air, along with the musty, fetid odors of his sheep. As the youngest and therefore the least in the family, he did not have the first pick of the chores. Hence, sheepherding was his lot. Could he, alone on this forlorn hilltop, be mindful? Would he tend this moment with no urgency, no purpose, or with both urgency and purpose? Where was his own “Forward” call within his menial service?

Caring for the sheep consumed his life. He considered his only significant moments were in transporting food supplies to the nearby battle lines. In stealth, he would deliver hardy supplies—grain, bread and cheese—to the unit on the front lines, then again return to the menial tasks, herding his bleating, smelly beasts. Today, at dawn’s break, he again loaded up the supplies, arriving to the sound of the clamor of battle. As usual, a vulgar dispute broke out among the front line ranks over today’s strategy. How to defend against the renewed threats of the enemy?

With opportunity arise both fear and courage. Fear announces an impending disastrous consequence—a wrong choice or a step too far. Courage responds—how? With the possible regret of having not tried, grappled, and succeeded.

“Forward!” came the sudden, unexpected voice of courage in the shepherd’s brain. It traveled to his hands, into his fingers, and toward his feet. Its sudden sound drove him to his knees, into the waters of a stream, where he quickly groped for the heavy, smoothed objects at the water’s edge. In a moment, he gathered the prizes from the bank and dropped them into his travel pouch. And in the same moment he lifted the pieces of granite from the stream, his brain fog cleared to reveal the purpose of the morning and of his life.

When does a rock become a stone?

A rock becomes a stone when that rock is put to a purpose. It becomes a stone the moment a young shepherd inserts the rock into his sling and lets it soar, fast and sure, splitting both the morning sky and, meeting its intended mark, a skull opened and split wide.