Moving Rocks My partner and I recently ordered a load of gravel to spread by hand along the length of our long winding drive. This simple task of shoveling, barrowing and spreading rocks comforts and soothes me in a way deeper than words. I gravitate toward these kinds of manual, understandable meditative projects whenever I feel overwhelmed by things I don’t have control over. Every day for a week. Two hours in the morning and two more at dusk. One shovel-full at a time. One wheel barrow load at a time. Working at a pace that allows the breath and the mind to fall into a slow rhythm. The pile is so large at the beginning, my mind must give up trying to mark progress. Only then does the magic of exquisite beauty begin. Without effort or will, the eye falls on one lovely shape and color and sparkle after another. Milk quartz, rose quartz, petrified mysteries of geometry and line; even one perfectly round bird’s-egg of stone. Each find palmed and pocketed; later to be washed and marveled over. After two weeks, the hill of gravel is gone. The driveway has become a crunchy path. And the little gifts of beautiful stones? They have become a small meditation of shape and color in a tray of sand to remind me of the calmness found from moving rocks.