A Healing Cut

When I was a boy, my father regularly accused me of having rocks in my head.

In a sense, I did.

Anywhere I went, I scoured my surrounds for pretty or unusual rocks.  I recall several grouse and deer hunting excursions when I overfilled my small lunch backpack with rocks and then convinced my father to carry a few in his backpack as well.

“We are not hunting rocks,” he would remind me.

“I am,” I would say.

I needed rocks then and I need them now.

This has not been my best week.  Putting down my 20 pounds of housecat hurt like hell.  So, yesterday, I called on my rocks for some form of respite.  I grabbed a rock from several specimens I gathered not far from my cabin and headed for the rock saw.  There are times—and this qualifies as one—when cutting a rock to see what’s inside is the most satisfying act available to me.

The rock cut easily and, once cut, revealed lovely patterns of purple amid fields of yellow pastels.

A good cut.  A healing cut.

Outside

Inside

—Mitchell Hegman