I used to have a stone - or rather a small pebble - in my desk drawer which I picked up on a beach in Sicily once upon a long ago, or 2002 as you might like to call it...
Every so often, on the truly awful days in that old place where I used to work (of which there were many) I would rummage around in that drawer, grab a hold of that pebble and try to use it to remember where I was at the moment I picked it up, and do my very best to transport myself back to that happier place and time, of sunny days, warm beaches and better company.
Somewhere in the house, gathering dust, I also have a tiny piece of lava picked up on Mount Etna during that same trip which, unfortunately, reminds me of the elderly Liverpudlians who complained bitterly of the coldness up near the summit and maintained "Dat dey didden tell us nut'un" even though the rest of the party, the ones who actually listened to what was being said, were all wrapped up and toasty-warm in their jerseys and anoraks or whatever cold-weather gear they'd happened to take along for their week in the sun.
The lump of lava, therefore, gathers dust and cobwebs, I think somewhere on the little shelf above the fireplace, for the memories it triggers are not so warm as being at the top of an active volcano ought to suggest, and so it hasn't ever been used as a fond memory trigger or stress reliever. It remains what it is, just a tiny fragment of lava of some small geological interest and, whilst it does still serve as a reminder to me of that angry mountain and its almost primeval connection to the very bowels of the Earth, it has never managed to become one of the magical transports to my "happy place..."
Of course, some people argue that surrounding yourself with "stuff" like this speaks volumes about some deep psychological need, and is just the kind of thing that triggers the hoarding instinct when you can't bear to part with any parts of your past simply because you cannot take yet another loss, however minor, in your life.
This, of course, may have a lot of truth in it, and the significant losses in my life did come at "difficult" times and have left me feeling vulnerable (for want of a better word), but I am also a bit of a "collector" too... so I do spend far too much time surrounded by "stuff" that other people might regard as "bits of old tat..."
Anyway, this summer, as we walked through Newborough Forest, we stopped for a moment in a peaceful clearing, and the Beloved bent down and picked up a small fir cone she'd spotted, and handed it to me, telling me to hang on to it and, when things get difficult at work, to try and use it to remember that quiet moment amongst the trees on that bright, relaxing summer's afternoon, and remind myself that things aren't always quite that bad.
And, do you know what...?
She's absolutely right.
It works.
Of course, some people argue that surrounding yourself with "stuff" like this speaks volumes about some deep psychological need, and is just the kind of thing that triggers the hoarding instinct when you can't bear to part with any parts of your past simply because you cannot take yet another loss, however minor, in your life.
This, of course, may have a lot of truth in it, and the significant losses in my life did come at "difficult" times and have left me feeling vulnerable (for want of a better word), but I am also a bit of a "collector" too... so I do spend far too much time surrounded by "stuff" that other people might regard as "bits of old tat..."
Anyway, this summer, as we walked through Newborough Forest, we stopped for a moment in a peaceful clearing, and the Beloved bent down and picked up a small fir cone she'd spotted, and handed it to me, telling me to hang on to it and, when things get difficult at work, to try and use it to remember that quiet moment amongst the trees on that bright, relaxing summer's afternoon, and remind myself that things aren't always quite that bad.
And, do you know what...?
She's absolutely right.
It works.
There is magic in stones Martin.
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