Attending the Quiet Lectures of Stones
Stones exist differently from humans.
Hi,
How are you this week? What gifts you stillness?
“For the stones live in two realms. They exist in the external landscape of pilgrimage, physicality and weather. They exist in our inner, imaginative landscape. In both places, they are lithic monarchs of their territory and we the visitors.
—Dr. Kenneth Brophy
Where I live now, in the mid-south of Portugal, it only takes about twenty minutes of walking before my feet step onto sand instead of concrete. The tiny grains welcome me like an old, good friend. After all, I am just the same—small, firm, not different from millions of others, yet with my own specific role to play.
I take off my shoes, even if it’s cold, and place my feet on the wet sand, letting the ocean water flow between my toes and up to my ankles. I close my eyes and listen to the ocean humming as it pulls in and out, and I know it’s the same melody I am made of.
I then continue along the shore, my feet now landing on larger stones. Their bodies are plain and smooth, or porous and jagged. I let myself feel them all.
As a child of five or six, I would step out of the house barefoot and tread along the gravelly driveway that led to our family home, passing through fields and a forest. I’d place my feet gently and carefully, curiously observing the sensation of pain that pierced through my feet right where the hard, pointy body of a stone pressed into the soft, yielding flesh of a child. It hurt just enough—not too much to cause me harm, but not so little that my mind could afford not to pay attention.
I would tell my parents it was a form of massage, and that after such a stamp-stroll, I could feel all my nerves, from the soles of my feet to the roots of my hair, tingling with excitement.
So here, too, I stomp on stones of all kinds and enjoy their varied textures, observing what each of their bodies does to mine. I know I also influence them and that they receive me as much as they give back. In nature, exchanges are equal.
On these walks, I usually visit the stones resting by the cliff's face, not far from the waterline. I kneel by their side and place my palm on their firm surface. The first time I overheard myself humming to them, I was caught by surprise. It was a melody I had never known, but somehow, it felt more familiar than any other I had ever heard or sung. “There is a serene silence in stones, a quiet that invites us to slow down and attune ourselves to the deeper music of the world,” wrote John O’Donohue. And I suppose this is what I hummed, and maybe it wasn’t to these stones after all, but with them. As the melody spread through the air from my lips, I felt how the stone beneath my hand radiated and resonated with it—with grace, tenderness, and softness—even though its body is rock-solid.
Although it may appear that the stone took upon itself something which it was not, nothing could be further from the truth. Without saying a word, it reminded me that the home of extremes is found in stillness. That there is no right or wrong in who and what we are—that we, humans, and everything around us, resonate with the same melody hummed equally by all bodies.
This was one of the many quiet lectures I attended during my walks. From stones, I learn about balance, simplicity, spirituality, peace, prayer, patience, direction, robustness, melody, and play. Most importantly, however, they teach me about time and continuity.
The intimate relationship with stones
On my desk, I keep two large stones that I brought from the beach. I did this even before I read about a similar practice in The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller (more on this a bit further down). I did it because I sensed instinctively that they would help me in writing and other work. I needed their “ancient patience,” as John O’Donohue writes, to offer me “a place to rest from the hurried, fragmented rhythm of modern life.”
But this is not the only way they aid me daily. Recently, my meditation practice has involved a small stone, too. I received it from one of the monks during my retreat at the monastery and was instructed to hold it in my palm, meditating on its heaviness and hardness, corresponding with that of my bones. Sometimes I think about how a body is similar to a sack of stones. Being with this quality invites a new sense of steadiness into my being, one that is more robust and substantial. It is, again, a sentiment observed by O’Donohue, who writes that stones “have a silence and stillness that ground us,” and that “in their presence, we find a mirror for our own stillness, a reminder that not all things move at our speed.” It is a stillness that envelops and sustains the world, for, in his words, “stones are the bones of the earth.”
Another meditation technique I am currently exploring is the practice of resting in the simplicity and peacefulness of external landscapes. When I find a quiet place, I sit down, gaze out ahead of me, and let my eyes defocus. Then, as I was taught, I ask, “What does this space need from me?” and “What story does it tell about itself?” After that, I simply listen for answers. These, of course, never come, and that is the whole point of the practice. The landscape doesn’t tell any story, and it doesn’t need anything—it is complete and peaceful as it is.
This is something that, I found, can also be observed in the presence of stones. “There is a beautiful hospitality in the silence of stones,” to quote John O’Donohue once more, who, as it seems, made similar observations. “It is a silence that does not need to be filled. When you encounter a stone, it does not ask anything of you. Instead, it invites you into a deeper presence.”
This intimate relationship with stones is new to me. Even though I always felt drawn to and fascinated by them, only now do I feel a sense of connection and reciprocity. In the search for words that could aid me in describing this newly embodied state of interbeing, I turned to thinkers I have read and knew of for their deeper understanding of stones, such as John O’Donohue, whose words have already helped us steady ourselves in this subject, and Francis Weller, as well as others who appeared in the search: Martin Heidegger and Kenneth Brophy.
In their reflections, although initiated from different angles and points of experience, I noticed similarities that revealed a shared understanding of stones, which emerge not only as physical objects but as profound symbols—keepers of time and gateways to deeper realms of existence. These authors, each in their own way, illuminate how stones dwell at the intersection of tangible reality and the vast expanses of imagination, inviting us into a relationship with time that is unhurried and sure of its own rhythm and timeliness, just like the earth’s turning itself.
Beings in time
Martin Heidegger, a German philosopher known for his existential and phenomenological work, saw stones as holding a kind of being that is profoundly different from our own, existing in a state of timelessness.
In his book Being and Time, he describes humans as “beings-toward-death” and thus deeply aware of their own finitude, which gives their lives urgency and structure. Stones, by contrast, lack any sense of time or temporality. They do not perceive the past, present, or future, nor do they have a relationship with their own mortality. A stone is not “aware” of change or decay; it simply endures as time passes. Its being does not involve any sense of anticipation, memory, or the need to create meaning in the face of its own existence.
While humans perceive time as a progression toward an end, stones remain untouched by this awareness, dwelling in what might be described as "geological time"—a deeper, slow, ancient rhythm that brushes against eternity.
This concept resonates with Francis Weller's reflections in The Wild Edge of Sorrow. He recounts how his mentor kept a large stone on his desk, referring to it as his clock—not one that measures minutes, but one that keeps time with the ancient heart of the earth. It served as a reminder that the soul’s work unfolds at its own pace, beyond deadlines and expectations.
This stone, like those Heidegger describes, and like the ones I keep on my own desk, offers a counterpoint to the hurried and inattentive tempo of daily life. It teaches that there is a time that moves with the pulse of the earth, where change is measured in the turning of mountains to sand, where transformation is as inevitable as the erosion that shapes a stone’s surface.
Everything transitions from one thing to another in the timeframe of stones; there are no endings or beginnings, only continuous arising and passing, dissecting and merging beyond form and singular occurrence. “When a seagull flies overhead, it’s a crab remanifested and taken flight,” as
wrote in “When Everything that Changes has Changed, What is Left?”. Dwelling in the time inhabited by stones, we can come closer to this realisation.Earth is one of the four elements forming our beings, alongside air, water, and fire, which means we, too, have the capacity to inhabit this slower, deeper, thicker, centering, total, earthbound sense of time—a time that aligns with the rhythms of the world and the quiet unfolding of the soul.
In this way, stones hold a kind of presence that invites us to imagine a different pace of life, one that mirrors the slow turning of the earth, even if our minds have grown accustomed to sourcing a sense of its passing from clocks and calendars instead of the Moon and Sun.
Timelessness
“Stones inhabit the spaces where time slows down, where moments stretch out into the stillness of eternity,” observed John O’Donohue, an Irish poet, philosopher, and author. Let’s delve a little deeper into this wisdom, which undoubtedly originated through repeated encounters between the mind and many stones.
O’Donohue expands on the idea of the timelessness inhabited by stones in Anam Cara and his other works, drawing from Celtic spirituality to explore how stones serve as bridges between the physical and spiritual worlds.
For him, stones are both "ancient and intimate," embodying a dual presence that is both physical—grounded in their material nature—and symbolic, representing a link to the eternal. They hold within them the essence of the land and the stories of those who have walked upon it; stones are, as John writes, “soaked with time.” To hold a stone is to hold a piece of the earth’s ancient story, a fragment of a mountain that once kissed the sky and now lies cradled in the palm.
This ancientness makes stones powerful symbols of continuity, grounding us in the mystery of existence. Yet, they are also intimate companions, offering a quiet, enduring presence that can soothe the restless heart. They invite us to draw close, to trace their cool surfaces with our hands, to sit with them in the quiet, and to feel their weight as a grounding presence.
This intimacy is tied to the Celtic notion of anam cara—the soul friend—where stones, like trees or rivers, become companions on the inward journey. They offer a kind of presence that does not demand but simply is, steadying us amid the rapid movements of life.
O'Donohue suggests that stones are like mirrors; in their stillness, we can see ourselves more clearly, our restless minds and weary hearts reflected back with a sense of the timeless.
This connection to time and memory gives stones a special role in many Indigenous cultures as well. Among the Anishinaabe people of North America, for instance, stones are revered as “Grandfathers” or “Grandmothers,” beings that have witnessed the unfolding of the earth’s story. This perspective, like O'Donohue’s, acknowledges the unique timeframe of stones and their role as keepers of ancient knowledge. Through rituals and stories, stones become active participants in shaping how cultures understand their connection to the earth, ancestors, and the cycles of nature.
To place a stone at a burial site or to carry one in a pocket is to honour this lineage, to remember that we, too, are part of this vast story of the earth. These stones, ancient as they are, remind us that time is not just a straight line but a circle, always turning, always returning.
Kenneth Brophy, an archaeologist and academic specializing in prehistoric archaeology, whose quote opened today’s space of exploration, deepens this understanding by suggesting that stones live “in two realms.” They inhabit both the external world of landscapes—places of pilgrimage, weather, and physicality—and the internal world of imagination and memory.
Stones are as much a part of the mind’s terrain as they are of the earth’s. They exist in stories, myths, and dreams, shaping how we see the world and our place within it. As “lithic monarchs,” stones rule these realms with a quiet authority, reminding us that we are merely visitors in their long story. Our lives brush against theirs for a moment, yet their presence stretches out over millennia, influencing generation after generation with their silent wisdom.
Many of us are touched by their influence. As I write this, an experience shared by
in a comment under my last essay comes to mind. She wrote that her best friend took her on a hike “to introduce [her] to a giant larger-than-life stone who makes her cry when she visits with him.”Sometimes, we might not understand it, but we can certainly sense how the thread of ancestry and stillness that weaves through us all is touched and evoked by the timelessness embodied in the stone.
The time of being
Stones dwell in a time and space deeper and thicker than our own, offering a way of seeing the world that is rooted in the sacred and eternal.
They remind us that beyond the ticking of clocks and the hurry of days, there is a slower, more enduring rhythm accessible to us—one that speaks to the ancient roots of our being.
They give us lectures on the continuity of existence, the slow unfolding of life that stretches back before us and will continue long after we are gone, reconnecting us with the primordial memory held within the earth and her landscapes.
Finally, they invite us to steady ourselves in the harmony of all things, an undercurrent running through all that happens, in tune with the deep time of the earth, where change is slow but certain, and where meaning is not hurried, but savoured and cultivated without attachment.
As John O'Donohue describes it, the act of being with stones—touching them, walking among them, building with them—is a form of grounding oneself in the continuity of existence. Stones represent the permanence of the earth and the ongoing cycles of nature, even as human life is marked by change and impermanence.
This grounding is not only physical but also spiritual, as it connects us to the enduring aspects of nature. It offers a way of finding stability and meaning amid the uncertainties of life. By engaging with stones and their ancient presence, we can find a sense of rootedness, feeling a part of the greater story of the earth.
And, as I observe in my meditation, contemplating on the qualities of stones, we are reminded of what we are made of, a stillness that sustains the world. In our bones, like stones, we measure the continuity of a time that is thick, immediate, and vast—one that steadies us instead of rushing us—a time of being.
I’d like to close with a poem by the Polish poet and writer Zbigniew Herbert, translated by Peter Dale Scott and Czeslaw Milosz, and titled simply, Pebble. I find that it speaks well to the mysterious nature of stones, which, as he writes, “cannot be tamed” and are “filled exactly with pebbly meaning.” I hope you enjoy reading it!
The pebble is a perfect creature equal to itself mindful of its limits filled exactly with a pebbly meaning with a scent that does not remind one of anything does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire its ardour and coldness are just and full of dignity I feel a heavy remorse when I hold it in my hand and its noble body is permeated by false warmth - Pebbles cannot be tamed to the end they will look at us with a calm and very clear eye
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A question to you, dear reader:
Do you have a stone friend?
This is so beautiful and beautifully written, Justyna! Your voice is quite reminiscent of John O'Donohue in fact. Anam Cara is a book I just love spending time in.
Let's see, some lines I really liked or that struck me. When you started a paragraph with, "On my desk, I keep two large stones..." I had to laugh; I was immediately reminded of Thoreau. Do you know the passage? "I had three pieces of limestone on my desk..." Of course it ends quite differently! 😆
I loved this line: "To hold a stone is to hold a piece of the earth’s ancient story, a fragment of a mountain that once kissed the sky and now lies cradled in the palm." It's always good to remember that stones are not so different from people; changing all the time.
And this: "While humans perceive time as a progression toward an end, stones remain untouched by this awareness, dwelling in what might be described as "geological time"—a deeper, slow, ancient rhythm that brushes against eternity." I think this is very sad for humans, but solvable! We just need to retrain ourselves NOT to see time as a progression toward an end. If we tell a different story, the stone's story—that we are also fragments of an ancient history, a never-ending history—perhaps we won't be so attached to these 5'-8"-tall oblong bits of ancient stone that look so pretty we want to defy nature and keep them just as they are forever! (In Thoreau's story, he ends up tossing his bits of limestone out the door. Perhaps there is a good metaphor for us there!)
Thank you so much for quoting me in your essay, Justyna. It's a true honor! 🙏💚
I have many different stone friends, each with a different story; all born of the same mother Earth. They have accompanied me through many phases and walks; I regularly return them to nature as part of my own passage through life. When I assumed sharing stories and teaching others, my initial inner courage was held together in my hand, accompanied by a stone while words formed in my mouth through feelings. Their constancy helps me find and remember my own, even though we know it only momentarily. To be able to speak a truth (a mere grain of sand), requires great courage at times, especially when some past story tells you that you do not exist at all (in the eyes of others). Once while teaching, a girl shared with me that in her childhood, her only friends were some stones in her urban back yard of concrete; I was and am still touched by the depth of her solitude and what we shared when she shared.
Their being, born in fire like the stars, is not humiliated as it becomes dust; such profound teaching for we who can walk here for a short time. we, as pebbles (as so beautifully told in this poem you share)