Perfection of the Morning by Sharon Butala

Author:Sharon Butala [Sharon Butala ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781443403122
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada

STONES IN THE GRASS

As I write this, on the shelf in front of me sits a chunk of wine-colored rock. It is probably sandstone, although rock identification is not something I’ve expended much energy on since it is not in my nature to be obsessed with what natural objects themselves are made of, or how or when, or what their proper names might be. Although I had wanted to learn the names of plants and animals I saw every day, a more scientific approach otherwise is not only irrelevant to my reasons for going out into Nature but I think too often the effort to find the answers only distracts from what is really to be found there.

This little rock is an oblong about four and a half inches by two and a half. The smooth, curved surface of its underside, still in its natural state, makes a satisfying fit to the curve of my palm. Its upper surface is rough and one rim has been carefully chipped to make a curved, sharp scraping edge. I can still see clearly the little indentations in the stone, probably made by another stone. Because of its warm wine color—most of these I find on the hills around here are chipped out of murky tan-colored chert—and because it is so clearly what it is, it is especially beautiful. But beyond that, I cherish it because it holds personal meaning for me.

A writer friend had come for a visit, and knowing from his writings and his conversation that he and I shared a similar point of view about Nature, I took him for a walk to the particular field, my favorite, I’ve mentioned. We hadn’t been there, strolling, talking, five minutes, when suddenly he bent. At the same time as he bent I felt something strong in my chest and I said, as he lifted that small wine-colored piece of rock, “That looks like a scraper,” at the same moment as he said, holding it up, “It’s a scraper.”

It was as though we had found it together, although he was the one who first saw it and bent and picked it up. Yet that something in my chest told me what he had found before I saw it, at the moment he was bending and lifting it. His find astonished me. “That’s the first artifact anyone has found here,” I said. “I’ve never found anything,” although I hadn’t been looking, since searching for spear or arrow points, stone hammers or pounders or scrapers, weapons and tools left behind by Aboriginal people, is also irrelevant to my reasons for going there.

We examined it, touched it, exclaimed over its beauty and the fact that we had entered the land and found it, virtually together, as if the land had meant us to find it, as some sort of affirmation of…what? Us? Him? Some venture we might expect to engage in together? We didn’t know and we didn’t speculate. The event, although it raised questions, seemed significant enough in itself for us to regard it as a blessing and to let it go at that.

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