Day Seventy-two

The stone may be as much me as any other part of me. When it is touching my fingers, I cannot find the touching point. When I look for that point, I find at first, only my skin impressed upon the stone. But after a while, I feel the pressing of bone under the skin, and feel the surface of the stone. The surface impresses not just upon my skin, but upon my bone, upon my arm, upon my body. But it is not the stone that impresses upon the bone, not the skin upon my arm, not my bone upon my body, but impulses that bear the seed of perception; combinations of combinations, the stone and the air, the gravity of the earth less the moon, the temperature born of the sun and the cool dark of the house; everything is here, and none of it can be captured or assigned a cost. At the same time, none of it can be denied; and the true relationship of all things is there in the stone and my fingers, my stone and the fingers, the flesh upon bone of my parents and my children, my love and my lost.