The Pebble

author’s note:

A poem for our stormy times.


THE PEBBLE

On the ocean horizon I saw
a bouffant pile of mad black clouds
rushing toward my shore.

So I thanked my stars I'd found
that boulder on the beach—
a cleft on its leeward side
opened to a secret chamber:
a womb
where I could sit in safety
during the chaos of lightning and rain.


And indeed I did feel secure
as I hunkered down inside—
felt secure
even as the winds rose
even as the waves swelled high
even as bullets of rain
began to rattle down
on the roof of my rock.

But then the waves began to break
on the boulder’s backside—
with every four beats, an explosion:
One…two…three…boom!  One…two…three…boom!
Threat followed threat.
I could shelter my body but not my mind and heart
against those angry blasts.

In desperation
I dove into my depths
hoping to find
a solid stone foundation of being
somewhere down there in the dark

but no—
all I could locate
was a pebble.

But since I had nothing else to hold
I held it
and though the little rock didn’t elicit
a sense of security in me
I made myself believe:
as long as I kept a firm grip
on that strong stone
I would endure.

In that way
I was able to maintain myself
—yes, indeed!—
until
after a long short time
the endless storm decided
to wait and return some other day.

So once again I stood on the sunny beach
as modest waves retreated to the sea.

I wanted to unfurl glorious lines
to celebrate my triumph.
But honesty prevailed as I wrote:

Rock walls will not protect us
from the anxiety provoked by storms
but we can survive our fear
if we’ll find that little bit of strength
hidden down within

then hold it to our heart
as we tell ourselves:

pebbles grow into bigger stones
through challenges like this one.

mythsteps · The Pebble

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