We would backpack for hours. It was strenuous and monotonous but in a very enjoyable way, I began to notice the beauty of the rocks. There were rocks everywhere, you know, cuz it was a mountain and stuff. I began to collect the most interesting ones I saw. "Leave only footprints and take only ALL THE ROCKS YOU CAN CRAM INTO YOUR PACK!!!" It got a bit ridiculous, the amount of extra weight I was carrying. Putting rocks in your backpack for 100 miles sounds like some sort of punishment your First Sergeant gives you for not pointing your weapon down range or something. I was doing this to myself. Nobody ever accused me of being smart. The trip unfortunately had to end, as all good things do. We left New Mexico and headed back home where the only rocks we have are sandstone and also that other sandstone.
What to do with all these cool rocks? They were pretty neat, but they would be way cool when they were polished. I went and bought a used rock tumbler and started looking into how to get these rocks polished and shiny. Polished rocks are fascinating and beautiful. There are infinite colors, swirls, specks, and colorations. All of this beauty took millions of years to form and then another million years to break loose and find its way on my path on the trail. The tumbling process takes a pretty long time, about 6 or 7 weeks of tumbling in 4 or 5 different degrees of grit. This takes the rock from this wild and gnarled rough stone into a shaped and rounded gleaming thing of beauty. I ordered a grit kit off the internet and got to tumbling.
If patience is a virtue, then I am not a very virtuous man. I could not hardly stand to wait for the time it took to tumble. You put the rocks in the barrel, put some water in, and then your grit and plug it in for at least a week. You cannot open the barrel and screw with the stones or even look at them because the process produces a gritty slurry. It has to just roll along in the dark barrel while I sit there and watch. It's like watching grass grow, except you are really excited to see how the grass turns out. I would run the batch of grit, remove the rocks and clean them and the barrel spotless and then start the new batch of grit. The 6 weeks finally went by and I had my splendid rocks.
These rocks were amazing. The diversity of color and design and just random beauty. They were all kinds of shapes. Some had pits and crevices, others were totally smooth. The fact that I had carried all these rocks and gathered them quite intimately from such a beautiful place made it that much better. I had this whole pile of amazing rocks. I put them in a cool wooden bowl I had picked up in some faraway land while I was in the Navy and that was that.
This is where I must go on a necessary tangent. When I head to work, I always put a few things in my pocket. Talismans, lucky charms, things like that. I have an Archangel Micheal coin, the patron saint of police officers. I have a few of these actually that have different little prayers on back. Saints are a Catholic thing but I like the mythology of it. The Archangel Micheal, leader of God's army of good versus evil. Legend says Satan got too big for his britches and he and his posse decided they wanted to be like God. The Archangel Michael was totally not down with that and was loyal to his chain of command. He, along with the army he lead, curb stomped Satan into Hell. He condescendingly utters "Quis ut Deus?" to Satan after the beat down and calmly walks away as stuff explodes behind him (probably). It's obvious why he is the patron saint of police officers. "Archangel Micheal, defend us in our day of battle...". I also carry an Eastern Orthodox prayer rope about the size of a string bracelet. This is used like a Catholic Rosary or Buddhist prayer beads. They use it to recite the "Jesus Prayer". The rope has 33 very intricately tied knots, knots that contain seven crosses being tied over and over. The 33 is for the number of years Jesus was alive. This legend says that Saint Anthony would tie simple knots in a rope every time he prayed. Satan would come and untie the knots, so he started tying the intricate seven cross knot that I am quite certain is more confounding then when you get one of those dang knots in your shoe lace. Side note, apparently Satan is that kind of dick that walks up behind you and starts saying "27, 13, 84, 28, 16..." when you are trying to count stuff and keep track. That generally gets you punched in the nuts in my world. My theology knowledge does not specify if Satan has nuts or not so I don't know if that's a viable way to battle Satan and his shenanigans. I also carry this little rope thing I made to remind me of why its important to be smart and safe and get myself home everyday. I must get home to my teenage son, who I am raising completely on my own. I took a button off of his old boy scout uniform he wore for three years but recently grew out of. I took red paracord (his favorite color), tied an intricate friendship knot and then tied two figure eight knots to signify that its just me and him. The button is in the loop made by the friendship know. I also took to carrying once of my aforementioned polished stones as a worry stone and also a reminder of that amazing trip.
Ok, back on track. I carry these things in my pocket when I am at work. Since I transferred back to patrol last year, I have become a bit of a specialist in dealing with and connecting with mentally or emotionally disturbed people I encounter or am in a position to assist. I have very specialized training in this from a few years back, but I am now the guy that has actually walked a mile in their shoes. I was on a call a bit back with this young college girl named Monica. She had talked to a friend about killing herself and was found with a large knife sitting next to her in the shower. This poor girl was a mess. I was obligated to get her help for her own safely and unfortunately against her will, She begrudgingly went with me after I explained to her that I wasn't able to leave and do nothing. She was a very sheltered girl from a very small town. We got to the hospital where she would get some help. Procedure is I get there, turn my person over to hospital security and roll. They put them in secure holding with the schizophrenic homeless guy that thinks he's Jesus and some guy that got PTSD from all the rape he got in prison. I knew how this worked. I knew this night sucked hard for Monica. I also knew that sending her off to the crazy lions den would bring the suck to a whole new level and likely turn her away from the process of getting help. I could just see her the next time she was way down, remembering this horrid experience and saying "fuck this attempt suicide shit, I not getting locked up again" and killing herself quite thoroughly. So I told security me and Monica would just chill in the waiting room until a bed was found for her. This took six fucking hours. I really didn't mind. I chose to do this and it was in the best interest of this poor girl in emotional distress. She didn't say much. She was trembling with fright. I just kept talking, busting off jokes and telling her about my own emotional trauma and ups and downs. Slowly, I could see she was becoming less terrified, but she was still scared. When it came time for her to go to another facility that had a bed, I gave her a few parting words. I told her about how I was supposed to just dump her off and send her into the crazy lions den. I told her I was kind of screwing my partners by hanging out at the hospital for six hours. I told her this was not something that any officer would have done. Then I told her I wasn't saying this to make her feel bad or let her know how awesome I was, but that I did this because I wanted something in return. I told her that I wanted her to be open to the process and be open to getting help. I told her that she had a long life ahead of her and she could get on the right track now at 19 instead of living in Shitville like I had until I was 39 years old. I told her it takes a brave person to reach a hand out for help. I told her that is exactly what I demanded in return for my six hours, for her to be brave and take that help. As I was talking to her, my hand was in my pants pocket where I keep all my talismans. I felt the rock I was carrying. I took it out and told her the story behind it, how I had found it on New Mexico, carted it around for 100 miles, took 6 weeks to make it nice and shiny and how it had been with me while on duty as a talisman. It was a part of me. I gave her the rock and told her to remember the kindness of a stranger the next time she was down. I wanted her to remember this night and know she was not in this struggle alone. I later got a call from Monica's mother. This woman would not shut up about how awesome I was and how her daughter told her I was the only reason she didn't totally lose it and run out the door. It was a kind gesture to let me know this and I thanked her. I didn't do all that for a gold star on my report card or something. I did it because I've been in that shitty place emotionally. I did it because there are certain people that brought me back from the brink. I did it because now its time to pay it forward.
I always carry a rock or two now. I've given many away to those in need that I have connected with. I've given some to kids or just crime victims. Its a token of compassion, giving a part of me to those in need of a boost. I was getting low on rocks and needed to tumble a new batch. I ordered more grit and looked up on the internet how to do this again. This website said I needed to discard the rocks that had pits or crevices or were odd shapes. Those rocks will not come out perfect and pretty. Bullshit. My first batch of rocks had many of these so called undesirable characteristics. These rocks are the ones that turned out to be the most interesting. Those were my favorites. Then, because my brain is always looking for deeper meaning, it hit me.
How much is this like our own lives? We trudge along, carrying a burden. After many years, we (hopefully) take this burden and decide to make something pretty or useful out of it. We put time and effort into this long and laborious process to turn this dirty chunk of whatever into something beautiful. Once we process this burden, we have made something beautiful, but also with very interesting scars, marks, crevices and imperfections. We are not perfectly round and pretty and shiny all over. We are real and natural. We embrace these imperfections as who we are. This is life. Parts of it are shiny and beautiful with amazing color and design. Some of it is not shiny, but unique to our journey. These imperfections are exactly who were are. Throw out the rocks with imperfections? Wasn't that Hitler's "Final Solution"? I'm certainly no history scholar, but that get rid of the undesirables shit didn't turn out so well from what I hear. I don't want to be perfectly round and shiny in a world with others that are perfectly round and shiny. That sounds like an Orwellian nightmare. I need my imperfections. My imperfections are exactly what has brought me to the path I am on now. Acknowledging and embracing my imperfections is the only way I can make the other parts shiny and pretty. It is certainly the only way I can share what is shiny and pretty with the rest of the world. My batch of rocks is in the middle of it's second grit cycle as I write this. I cannot wait to see how they turn out, imperfections and all.
If you see a cop walking around and it looks like he has an awful lot of stuff in his left pocket, stop and chat with him. If he seems a little eccentric, he may reach into that pocket and give you a really cool rock. Don't ask for it though. If that cop isn't me, that's going to be really really awkward.
No comments:
Post a Comment