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Remembrance of you, cont.
     The woman was about my own age and had coal black hair and luminous eyes and an earthly, sensual beauty in her face. "It is a stone of free will and free joy," she said, articulating her words slowly and precisely. Her eyes glowed with an inner light, as if she were seeing into the heart of the stone. "I see this to be the Child's Stone. A stone of being who you wish to be—and doing what you wish to do—with the freedom of the child. A stone of knowing how you feel and what you want—as a child knows—instinctively."
     I slipped the stone on the ring finger of my right hand and imagined myself wearing it. For me this blue stone was the stone of the warm shallow seas and the white cloud sky. The stone of the wanderer who finds joy and never loses his way.
The woman, still looking at the ring with warm, dreamy eyes, raised one hand to her neck and pulled a thin silver chain from beneath her black wool sweater. On the chain, set in a delicate silver loop, was another blue sky stone.
     "I love this stone," she said to us, almost in a whisper. "I keep it with me all the time. It is the stone of a Dreamer."
     A quiver of excitement showed in her voice. Angelina squeezed my hand. We both felt honored that this woman had shown us her personal power stone. Glancing at the ring still on my finger, the woman said, "These are Dreaming stones. They carry a new message to the world."
What did she mean by that? I was afraid to ask, afraid that the question would break the magical spell. Looking at the stone on my finger in that strangely warm and dreamingly way the woman said, "I feel that this is your stone. Yes. The Child's Stone is your personal stone."
     Perhaps she was just saying this to sell me the ring, quibbled the doubter in me. But I don’t think so. She was not a woman to lie about such things. Besides, I had made up my mind to take the ring right from the beginning. I felt that the energy of the blue sky stone was closely connected to my heart. I bought the ring, and Angelina took the fire opal, and we walked back down the hill, both in a slightly astonished dream.
     But the inspiration for the poem...?
     The elusive chemistry, the subtle indivisibility of this remembrance, felt to me like a fleeting dream in the early morning light; like a moonbeam in the grasses or the shadow of a hand against a tree limb; like the dancing flitter of light among trees or the pattern of reflections in water or the movement of a young girl passing by a window: all these things that come and go, that you see and do not know if your really saw or not.
     I wanted a good ending to my poem. Something solid, final, unshakable. To be the few notes of a melody heard faraway and not the complete song, this felt most unsettling to my mind. I was used to thinking in terms of tight, defined structures, and the routines of daily life, and concrete forms that seemed to defy the changes of time and the tides. In my belief system I judged things right or wrong; real or not real. The undefined: all those things that you couldn't touch, and that have no continuity, belonged to the world of illusion and fantasy and to the dangerous and watery realm of Neptune. But not to the planet Earth. I could not imagine that the essence of the life force might happen randomly from day to day, here today, somewhere else tomorrow, a bit of this, a pinch of that, a little piece of sunray, a little rainbow, a dewdrop, a flower, a butterfly's wings traced against the sun. I could not believe that these things might contain any real meaning, expressed in a way that only the peripheral of my mind, the edges of my sight, the inner ear, the half-beat between my heart beats, could understand. Nor could I see that these elusory impressions and fleeting images and memories that could not be made tangible, or stuck into some rigid category, or confined in a system, or explained by a theory, or controlled by the laws of this or that: all these things that come and go, that slip past the corner of your eye, that you see and do not know if you really saw or not, contain the essence of magic and beauty and playfulness and are just as real and meaningful and alive as the life animals live or plants live or human beings live; that these things are more than just frosting and adornment and ornaments solicited by a none-too-real imagination,—or temptations that would lead me astray into sloth and indolence and false longings; but they are living strands of energy and power and essence that help to keep the mind from turning rigid and cold and going dead; and through these things that come and go, that you see and do not know if you really saw or not; that through these flights of fantasy, these delicate ribbons of light, these rainbow colors, these fleeting dreams, I might cease this ancient war with myself and bring a great opening to my heart and to my mind and to the other energy centers of my body, and create within and around myself a kind of healing spaciousness and a gentle passage that would bring me home to the truth of my being, to the wholeness of personality and self, and to my unremembered identity.
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