I have rocks in my house.
They live on window ledges, lurk in bathrooms in clusters, and congregate in glass bowls. It’s ridiculous, but I think they're beautiful and perfect in their simplicity.
There's a certain inevitability when I reach down and pick up stones from a beach, pathway or field. Later, I'm happy finding them inside pockets when unpacking – a memento of another time and place tumbling out from my suitcase.
I've got stones from the beaches of the Amalfi coast that are as round as marbles, and beautifully striped grey stones ringed around with bands of sliver from the beaches of France. There's also a few curious looking brown stones from a battlefield in Scotland, black pumice rocks from Hawaii, egg-shaped granite stones from the west coast of Canada, dove-white stones from my local beach in Prince Edward County and endless grey stones that just fit right in my hand.
From Left to Right: British Columbia, Prince Edward County. Credit @toryawright
One of my favourites is a long and skinny one. I hold it in the bent crook of my fingers when I'm thinking. I've two heart shaped stones that were mailed to me from Vancouver, and a cluster of snail stones - fossils from the ancient lake that occupied the air above my cottage a millennia ago.
These are my souvenirs, memories of trips, life, laughter and even sadness. They don’t weigh me down they invite my imagination and keep me grounded.