I have returned from camping out in the woods.  Those deep tall wide warm wood days, softened with a forest floor layered with fir cushions.  Nearby an eternal river of rushing day and night rumble.

The river was surrounded by rocks–big, small, gravel, sand, boulders–torn from the granite mountain and polished with a million years of water round.  We picked our way cautiously along the rocks, stumbling, holding on to branches and the larger stones to set our camp chairs along the tenuous shore to sit with our feet in the glacier cold.

We had to shout at each other to be heard above the rapids and rushing river.  But after a quiet time in the sun, the rocks revealed their secrets in a simple phrase: “Rumble, tumble, roar.”

So these days I make a point of rolling with it, allowing the water and boulders of the day to polish me smooth into a stone-solid heart.