I am a rock. I am an island.

When I was little, I was fascinated by rocks, pebbles, stones. You name it, and I loved it. Not all of them, mind you. There had to be something special about them that caught my eye. Perhaps a little marbling of colors, the sparkle of quartz, the shape, or the beauty of agate. I loved smooth rocks. I liked the way they felt in my hand. I liked how they would skip across water. And I loved to paint them, so they looked like an insect. I was just as likely, if not more so than my brothers to have rocks or pebbles in my pockets come wash day.

I walked a mile or so to school every day, so I had plenty of rocks to examine on my way home or on the way to school. For years, I collected them. It was something all of my family did to a degree. Mom and Dad went agate hunting many times over the years. Sometimes it was a date with just the two of them. Other times it was a family occasion. Daddy found one agate in particular that was absolutely beautiful and had it cut, polished, and made into a pendant necklace for Mom. She still wears it from time to time.

I remember spending many hours at my elementary school trying to dig out one little rock or the other that had caught my eye on the playground. I don't know that I was ever successful. If I was, it certainly wasn't a regular occurence. Asphalt isn't very forgiving of the gems it envelopes before hardening. Not even the marbles we would find while sitting in the boundaries of the yellow Four Square pattern while playing house or talking with friends were loosed of the asphalt's tight grip. A little girl with plenty of determination still wasn't strong enough to win out.

Tonight, as I was trying to clean out some of the stuff in Hopper's room, I happened across a rock. It was in with some craft things that I had sorted. It was a charcoal gray - dark on it's own, but it would easily be black, if it were to be wet. It was smooth but porous. It reminded me of lava rock, but not quite that porous and not nearly as rough. It was about 2" long, 1 1/4" wide and no more than a 1/2" thick. I left it to deal with last, as I wasn't sure what I was going to do with it. It had all the qualities of a good rock. The kind of rock that drew my eye when I was a child and even grabs my attention now.

I had thought of just tossing it outside, but we don't have a lot of rocks out there. At least not intentionally. And this could make quite the mess, if it was picked up and thrown by the lawnmower. I considered putting it in a potted plant, but we really don't have any large plants, and it would look really out of place in a small one. However, the thought that kept coming back to my mind over and over again was that it would be so much fun to paint.

Perhaps to turn it into a ladybug, a bumble bee or even a smiley face. You see, if it were painted, if it looked cute and like a little bug, it wouldn't matter what size pot it was in. It would show under the edge of the plant, and it would sit there patiently waiting to be admired. It would be really cute, if Hopper and Scooter painted it. Or maybe I'd get some more rocks. I'd go for a walk with the girls and scour a pathway like I did when I was a little girl, and we'd collect rocks, and we'd bring them home and paint them. I'd make sure they were weatherproofed, so they could sit out in the flower garden to be admired and the paint wouldn't fade. Yeah. That's an idea!

Then, like a car screeching to a halt after the driver saw the 'Road Washed Out Ahead' sign, I started seeing the danger in my thinking. I quickly realized that I have no idea when I would be able to get the paints out and have a rock painting party. It's just not on the priority list that I have running through my mind on a continual basis. Then I started imagining boxes with nothing but rocks in them waiting for me to get to them. To make them pretty. To make them mine. Shoot. I already have boxes that are literally filled with shells from the beaches we've been to. I can hardly lift them. I can't imagine trying to lift a box of rocks.

After arguing with myself all evening on the pros and cons of keeping the rock, I threw it away. I then promptly took it out of the trash.

Twice.

I did finally just leave it in the trash, and I'm sincerely hoping I forget about it when I go work in Hopper's room again. I fear I may try to reclaim it. Even as I write this, I find myself torn and wanting to go dig it out and save it. To make sure it has a good home. To make that home be mine, where I can enjoy it. Where my children can enjoy it.

I know. It makes absolutely no logical sense at all.