Next to this laptop, on my white vanity with its paint chipping, sits a bowl of crystals and gemstones I hand-picked from a shop in the French Quarter of New Orleans years ago. I suppose I thought each one would offer protection, or grounding, or optimism.
I remember reading the slips of paper tucked in with their names: a beautiful translucent green stone called aventurine, tied to the heart and healing. A unakite jasper, splashed with soft pinks against muted green, meant to help release negative habits. And my favorite, a piece of selenite (Satin Spar), sacred to Selene, the Greek goddess of the moon.
I’m not a collector of much, but I’ve grown to love having gemstones around. Not fully convinced they do shit, but wanting to believe. If you come into my office (and ask), I’ll happily point out my selenite “charging” bowl and explain what each stone inside signifies. Does it actually change the energy of the room? I don’t know. Does prayer?
My tiger’s eye (known for protection, anchoring emotions, and giving confidence) ended up in the pocket of my linen pants. I roll it in my hands as I sit on a barstool in my parents’ kitchen. My mom is cooking spaghetti aglio e olio, and my dad is telling me a story about his friend Frank, who just passed away at seventy-eight. My father’s storytelling is my favorite thing in the world, so I’m not sure why I am clenching so hard on this stone.
He had known Frank since they were ten years old. One memory: Dad a sophomore, Frank a junior, the two of them walking to school on the first day. I can picture the area, because I grew up on the same street. Frank says, “Let’s have a smoke,” and as they light up, a school administrator drives by. They both got detention. My dad laughs, remembering how he had to sweep the entire gymnasium.
My mom chimes in to share another memory. My dad gave a speech at Frank’s wedding when he was only eighteen. “Do we have a copy of that video?” she asks. Frank had married his high school sweetheart, Dawn. She was still by his side all these years later, holding his hand at the end. My mom looks at my dad and says, “You were so impressive then. So confident for just eighteen.”
I can easily see it: my younger father with his handsome, up-to-something face, always a jokester, his athletic build, and dazzling smile. I have no doubt he made that whole room laugh while also making them feel held, even at such a young age. He’s always been a protector, provider, and lover.
I don’t know if crystals heal, or if prayer does. I know some people really believe in one or the other, rarely both.
But I do know my father is a living stone, charged with memory and love, holding us all.
I slip the tiger’s eye back into my purse instead of my pocket, and sit back at the bar for more stories.
(Daily Writing 090)
Thoughts?