The Rock

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The rock was very old. It had lived in the river for many years, and its belly had become as smooth as that of the water that held it. It had traveled down the river, and had seen many things, had learned much. Each year it would go a certain length, and when winter came, it would become covered with darkness, and then would sleep. The ice would cover the river like a blanket, and the rock would feel at once like falling, like sleeping. Then it would only dream of the past year, and would remember what had happened. In this way the rock could learn, it could remember, and make a part of the past year its own.
Within it the rock had many things. It had the green of the trees, the bear's sweet tongue, the scales of the fish, each of them a rainbowed mirror of the earth above. The rock saw all of these things, and many more, and had become each thing that it had seen, carried them within itself, until it was many things, this small rock.
It had started out a large mother rock, perhaps the mother of all rocks, but it could not stand to think that it was alone, that it was only this one great thing. It could hear, every day, more and more, different voices talking, different voices than its own. Some of them wanted to be in another place, perhaps on another side of the rock, some of the voices talked only of stretching, perhaps even of stretching to the point of accidentally breaking off. But these voices knew that to stretch was to crack, and eventually fall off into who knew what. But when the rock was one great thing, it knew that it was still apart, that it was, or perhaps could be, different. It knew it in its rock self, and could not know what it knew now, it was still too young at the time. Then it only knew that it heard other voices within and without its great rock self. It knew of the river, and would look down. It knew of the wind, could hear its different voices. It knew of the rain, and that it fed the river, it knew that there were others besides itself. It knew of these few things.
Now it was very old, and had seen and become many things. The lichen had talked with it, had joined it, and made the rock its home. The leaves that fell and died in the river told it their stories of the winds and insects, and the rock had become them all, the many snow-covered winters, many summers, the many different Springs and Falls. It had become the stream that had become the river that had been swallowed by the great salt sea. It had fallen deeply asleep beneath the great depths, had been carried by the mother tides, until finally, within itself, it felt many little voices, and the rock then remembered its beginnings.
These voices knew that they were not alone. Some wanted to be on the other side of another small voice, some wanted very badly to stretch, and the old rock heard them all, many small, frightened voices, all afraid of cracking, falling off into who knew what. But these small voices all knew that they were not alone, and at the same time that they were different.
Then one day the rock felt a little pain in its smooth side, felt a little as if it were, perhaps, dying. It felt a small, very small, perhaps, crack. It hurt, but the rock was not afraid, it loved its small voices. The rock felt within itself, and remembered, for it had slept and dreamt for many winters. It remembered itself, and knew that it was still the great mother rock, who knew that to fall, even apart, was to go on to see and to become many different things. Then as the rock lay on the sand, deep beneath the great sea, it felt at home, knowing that even though it would be different, it was not alone.
Panto Ano
All that is above 
Touto Kato
Also is below 

~ Velene Campbell

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