Long ago, a friend of mine gave me a wonderful gift — one that I’ve held close and yet given away many times. She told me that beach stones with a line all the way around them are wishing rocks. It doesn’t matter if the line is quartz in granite or the fusion of two different types of rock altogether or a crease of the same rock. All that matters is that the line goes all the way around to meet itself without end.
Wishing rocks don’t have rules.
Does it matter how many wishes you make? Do you have to use one rock for one wish and another for one more? Can you remake the same wish? Can you pick up the rock next time and make more wishes? Does it have to be held in hand? If a wishing rock has more than one line, can you make more than one wish at a time? Wish as much as you like. There are no rules on wishes.
Wishing rocks have power. A universal, elemental power.
I slip wishing rocks in my pocket when I walk the beach. Not every wishing rock, mind you, as I’d never make it home under the load, but special, beautiful ones — smooth ones, or translucent ones, or exquisitely formed ones. Grey or white or red or ochre ones — any of the above, or all.
Size doesn’t matter. In fact, some of the most satisfying wishing rocks are tiny bits of endurance with all the rough edges smoothed away over time, water over rock — the inexorable force.
I don’t always wish on the ones I find right away, but save them for times when wishes are especially important or when wishing is the only clear path through the wildness.
Sometimes I give wishing rocks away — that’s the best, because not everyone knows about wishing rocks. They seem like something people should know about. Everybody could use a wishing rock at some point, couldn’t they? Just about everybody, I reckon.
Wishing rocks are compelling, an alluring gift of benevolence and beauty, of universal possibility and transformation with no rules on wishes.
Over time, I’ve accumulated a small mound of wishing rocks that encircle a plant on my patio. I turn each over and hold them, sort them by color, and rearrange the leaves and
debris a little spider who lives in the pile has accumulated. Friends and family add their own to the pile when the spirit moves them.
My favorites — and this is a changing group — I put on the table on the wooden table on my back deck to handle and rub when we sit with a bottle of wine on a warm tropical evening or over a lunch of warm ripe tomatoes with pungent local olive oil and goat’s cheese.
I never fail to pick the wishing rocks up and examine them in turn, finding deep satisfaction in the hand-feel once again. And in the connection with that universal power that wishing rocks have — with no rules on wishes.