The enjoyable everything-ness of having nothing

When I was a kid, I hiked on rocky trails with my parents on occasionally sunny Saturdays. We often visited the Cascades, tall mountains and trails from which you could see many other peaks.

My little legs pounded down on dirt and pine needles, on a great adventure that could have been no more than a mile from our car.

When we hiked, my eyes focused on the path and surrounding area, as I scanned for special rocks (much as my mother had done with shells on the beach on so many occasions, in a different lifetime).

And I found them, so many magical rocks: white rocks, gray rocks, gray rocks with white flecks, white rocks with gray flecks, smooth black obsidian, is this an arrowhead?!! Is this gold?!

Through the woods we went, as the scent of pine and sound of small animals was faint on the breeze and the quiet crunch of my parents footsteps softly played around me.

When we returned to the car, my pockets were full.

You have to leave those here, my dad told me. You can't bring those home.

I reluctantly dropped a few that I was less attached to and patted my pockets as if to say, See, barely any left, clink, clink, clink.

On the way home, I thought about my rocks and all the things they could do. As if each of them was a defense against a world far larger, more complicated, and dangerous that I innately sensed but could not understand.

And back at home, as I got out of the car gently, the sound of the rocks reminded my father of them.

You have to leave those outside, he told me again and for what sounded like the last time. I pleaded.

You can keep one, he said.

So with dropped shoulders and downcast eyes, I discarded all but a few.

***

It wasn't until years later that I realized how many rocks there are in the world.

It wasn't until today.

That I realized I never had any.