‘But wretched are they, with their hopes set on dead things,
... useless stone, carved by some hand long ago.’
(Wisdom 13:10)
... useless stone, carved by some hand long ago.’
(Wisdom 13:10)
Years ago, on a quiet summer evening I walked along the beach in the west of Ireland where I was to experience what would begin making sense of what had been happening to me; something about which I have already written.
I had already walked to the far end of the strand, and had spent a while pondering my behaviour with regard to a stone which I had once picked up there, had made my own, and had then given away. That stone turned into something more than it should have been. It always remained the stone that it was, but in my mind it became a special stone: a stone among stones. Of course I did not worship it or pray to it; I placed no hope in it, and I still saw it only as a stone, but I became attached to it, and the attachment came about as a result of my having worked on it.
I had ground it flat, cut a cross in it, and put notches around the edge for the stations of the cross. It was done quickly and roughly; in no way was it a work of art. Perhaps in one sense it was, but it was not fashioned in a way that resulted in pride, or even a particular pleasure with the result. It was not made to be shown to others, and, in fact, was not made for any reason other than that the natural shape of the stone lent itself to it. The idea came, and I acted on it. But once I had seen it in its new form I thought I could wear it around my neck, and having drilled though it for that purpose, that is what I did for a while when in Ireland. One of the old people there said I should have the priest bless it when he next came to the village, but that thought reminded me that it was in fact nothing but a stone. And why would I want a priest to bless it, if not to assist me in turning it into something else? Into what? Something with which to become familiar and comfortable? To grow fond of? Because it had been blessed, something to be relied on and to be prayed with? Into what, if not an idol?
Because it only existed in that form through the work of my own hands, I could not accept that the stone could become anything more than it was, and yet, that same stone still meant enough to me to become a gift given when I felt that a very real thank you was needed. With hindsight, I think I worked on it and wore it as a way of expressing the fact that something had changed: that I had somehow allowed Jesus to make His home in me, and, though unable to break out of my natural reserve, I needed to make that fact known to the world around me. It was for this same reason that I had an icthus, fish symbol on my car for the next few years.
It seemed as though the stone, even when I first picked it up, was meant to become that gift; to become a symbol, the changes and movements of which would mark out the path for the removal of the stones within me. It became significant because of what was going on within me at that time, and giving it away was my way of trying to tell the person I most needed to tell: the person whose friendship had given rise to my awareness that it would be much harder to let go of friendship once found, than it would be to throw the stone back into the sea.
Almost as soon as I had parted with it I missed it dreadfully. (Looking back at it now, the whole episode seems more like a form of madness than anything else.) That sense of need – which had not existed at all before – resulted in my making myself a similar but much smaller stone from another piece gathered from the same spot; the same dark green marble, ground flat, cut with a cross and twelve notches round the rim. I carried this everywhere with me for weeks, holding it in my hand in my pocket or inside my glove when the winter days were particularly cold, somehow finding it an aid to prayer and a link with the person to whom I had given the first stone. I felt so utterly low and empty at that time that I continually needed that person's support, and I always felt that it was there even though we rarely met or spoke at all.
Some months later, while in the Abbey Church at Douai, I decided to finally break away from this substitute stone I had been carrying. In doing so I knew that I would also be leaving behind its connection with the first stone with all the associated confusions, as well as my reliance on that one particular friend and my felt need for continued support.
I had been praying at the side altar where the Blessed Sacrament was kept, (a place in which I had never rested before), and when I left I placed the stone on the altar. I worried a little that its presence there might offend whoever found it, but I also hoped that maybe that person would keep it, and one day learn how and why it had come to be there. As soon as I had done this I became aware of just how worthless a gift the first stone had been. It was a nothing upon which my mind had placed some sort of non-existent value, and for that reason, and because I was becoming increasingly embarrassed by the fact that I had given it, I began to want its return. I asked for it once but was told, with a smile, that I could not have it back. I have never seen it again.
I had already walked to the far end of the strand, and had spent a while pondering my behaviour with regard to a stone which I had once picked up there, had made my own, and had then given away. That stone turned into something more than it should have been. It always remained the stone that it was, but in my mind it became a special stone: a stone among stones. Of course I did not worship it or pray to it; I placed no hope in it, and I still saw it only as a stone, but I became attached to it, and the attachment came about as a result of my having worked on it.
I had ground it flat, cut a cross in it, and put notches around the edge for the stations of the cross. It was done quickly and roughly; in no way was it a work of art. Perhaps in one sense it was, but it was not fashioned in a way that resulted in pride, or even a particular pleasure with the result. It was not made to be shown to others, and, in fact, was not made for any reason other than that the natural shape of the stone lent itself to it. The idea came, and I acted on it. But once I had seen it in its new form I thought I could wear it around my neck, and having drilled though it for that purpose, that is what I did for a while when in Ireland. One of the old people there said I should have the priest bless it when he next came to the village, but that thought reminded me that it was in fact nothing but a stone. And why would I want a priest to bless it, if not to assist me in turning it into something else? Into what? Something with which to become familiar and comfortable? To grow fond of? Because it had been blessed, something to be relied on and to be prayed with? Into what, if not an idol?
Because it only existed in that form through the work of my own hands, I could not accept that the stone could become anything more than it was, and yet, that same stone still meant enough to me to become a gift given when I felt that a very real thank you was needed. With hindsight, I think I worked on it and wore it as a way of expressing the fact that something had changed: that I had somehow allowed Jesus to make His home in me, and, though unable to break out of my natural reserve, I needed to make that fact known to the world around me. It was for this same reason that I had an icthus, fish symbol on my car for the next few years.
It seemed as though the stone, even when I first picked it up, was meant to become that gift; to become a symbol, the changes and movements of which would mark out the path for the removal of the stones within me. It became significant because of what was going on within me at that time, and giving it away was my way of trying to tell the person I most needed to tell: the person whose friendship had given rise to my awareness that it would be much harder to let go of friendship once found, than it would be to throw the stone back into the sea.
Almost as soon as I had parted with it I missed it dreadfully. (Looking back at it now, the whole episode seems more like a form of madness than anything else.) That sense of need – which had not existed at all before – resulted in my making myself a similar but much smaller stone from another piece gathered from the same spot; the same dark green marble, ground flat, cut with a cross and twelve notches round the rim. I carried this everywhere with me for weeks, holding it in my hand in my pocket or inside my glove when the winter days were particularly cold, somehow finding it an aid to prayer and a link with the person to whom I had given the first stone. I felt so utterly low and empty at that time that I continually needed that person's support, and I always felt that it was there even though we rarely met or spoke at all.
Some months later, while in the Abbey Church at Douai, I decided to finally break away from this substitute stone I had been carrying. In doing so I knew that I would also be leaving behind its connection with the first stone with all the associated confusions, as well as my reliance on that one particular friend and my felt need for continued support.
I had been praying at the side altar where the Blessed Sacrament was kept, (a place in which I had never rested before), and when I left I placed the stone on the altar. I worried a little that its presence there might offend whoever found it, but I also hoped that maybe that person would keep it, and one day learn how and why it had come to be there. As soon as I had done this I became aware of just how worthless a gift the first stone had been. It was a nothing upon which my mind had placed some sort of non-existent value, and for that reason, and because I was becoming increasingly embarrassed by the fact that I had given it, I began to want its return. I asked for it once but was told, with a smile, that I could not have it back. I have never seen it again.
I wanted it returned, not for myself to keep, but to take it to the place from whence it came: to throw it back to the sea at the far end of that beach. Realising at last that this too was placing a foolish significance on the stone, I asked a mutual friend to try to obtain it, and to take it to West Cork with her when she went, there to throw it into the sea for me. A long way from the place where it had been found, but it was Ireland, and at least it would have been dealt with. That did not happen either.
And all this had been forgotten until I first began writing about my visits to that beach.
I still pick up stones, and I may shape others in the future, but their simple reality will not be confused; they will remain what they are, just as all the useless things with which we surround ourselves remain forever useless.
And all this had been forgotten until I first began writing about my visits to that beach.
I still pick up stones, and I may shape others in the future, but their simple reality will not be confused; they will remain what they are, just as all the useless things with which we surround ourselves remain forever useless.
They will be merely ‘useless stone, carved by some hand long ago.’
This was a time since when the words of Ecclesiastes 3:5 have never been the same.
This was a time since when the words of Ecclesiastes 3:5 have never been the same.
'A time for throwing stones away, a time for gathering them;'
.
