Artwork by Bruce Zboray www.bruce-zboray.artistwebsites.com
I love stone walls.
I live in New England and pass many stone walls on my daily walk.
Some are very neat, crafted with an artistic eye and fitted very precisely in beautiful patterns, like big rock, little rock, little rock, big rock. They’re cemented together.
But the stone walls I love best are the olden ones made when this place was farmland. The stones are jumbled – just laid one on top of the other, all askew, with lots and lots of hidden space where chipmunks live and play, where ivy grows, where deep blue shadows, cool, lay among the warm cream and silver stone in the sunlight.
These piles of rocks call to me in some very ancient way, as if remembering trails marked by piles of stone, wells for water made of stone, and perhaps even 10,000-year-old megaliths of stone like Stonehenge and the pyramids, made for sacred ritual. – honoring earth, the stars and our place among the stars.
In fact, I keep a pile of stones in my backyard – about the width of a wishing well. I love to hear the sound as I toss a rock onto the pile, the sound of rock upon rock.
I sometimes actually stop, so fascinated by the beauty of so many stones, all different shapes and sizes bound together simply by their weight, the smaller filling in the gaps of the larger, piled by a knowing hand, as best as possible.
And if you’ve ever crossed over a stone wall, you will hear the rocks talk to you, their click-clack as you settle them more and mark them with your passing presence.