I’m not really a collector. I’ve tried to be mindful of how many things I own, and I’ve never quite understood the passion for collecting baseball cards, stamps, coins, Hummels and so forth.

The one thing I ever made any effort to collect was rocks. As a young child, I would find the pretty, the unique and the sparkly rocks… starting in my Grandma and Grandpa Schreck’s long, gravel driveway. My father usually accompanied me and encouraged my rock-collecting; when we visited local parks and went camping, Dad made sure I had carefully chosen my token rocks. And when my dad drove us in the long, blue station wagon with faux-wood trim to Colorado when I was nine, we stopped in South Dakota to see Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse, and I was so excited to take away rocks from these actual rock formations, provided in “free” bins at both of these landmarks.

My collection grew. I would take them out, really look at each rock’s surface, noting nicks, color variations, holes, perfect imperfections. Some had fun names because I could not locate the actual type in my guide book, like the lighter white and gray rocks with small holes, which I nicknamed my “woodpecker rocks” because I imagined that a bird must have put the holes there. On occasion, I’d take my collection outside to run water over them and let them dry in the sun. Something was so grounding about having pieces of the earth. Sometimes I’d have a certain stone in my backpack or a few in my suitcase; they were a source of groundedness, memories and adornment. I kept them in a basic cardboard box, labeled with something like “Erika’s Rocks.”

And then they suddenly disappeared. I eventually learned my ex-step-father “threw them out”—he told me himself, off-handedly, when I had repeatedly searched our basement in vain and asked where my rock collection had gone.

I had initial heavy disappointment. Many of the places I’d visited, particularly with my father, and my deep connection with Nature were in those prized pieces, and my guide books were also lost with that collection. But this tale is not tragic.

orange calcite (left) and rose quartz (right)

Last week, while doing reiki with a client in my healing space, I’d just placed a large, smooth rose quartz in one of her hands and a lovely piece of orange calcite in her other hand, and I was happily startled with a realization. I glanced around my healing space, as I continued with said client’s reiki session, and smiled, taking in the plethora of gemstones in varying sizes. I have been re-collecting rocks. Even right before this client had arrived for her appointment, I’d placed my toothbrush on the small shelf in my personal bathroom, next to two rocks I’d collected from a beautiful lake area in Wisconsin.

Rocks and gemstones are in every room of my home, and I haven’t until recently made the connection that these additions are in some sense continuing a sacred practice I’ve reclaimed. I have countless gemstones and gift them often as part of my healing work; they amplify energy so beautifully and powerfully. And metamorphic and sedimentary rocks (rocks I found on the ground, in the woods, in rivers) are also sprinkled throughout my home—I recently found one in a backpack I’ve had for a long time, tucked away deeply in a pocket. Even my fireplace ledge has huge, heavy, colored rocks from the ground in Crestone, Colorado—a gift from a kind, former neighbor.

How wonderful to reclaim our passions, our identity and our power as we age—it is our choice. Sometimes it takes a bit of time for us to see the patterns in our choices, and I’m grateful for yet another interesting realization. All is not lost, and never will be. With rocks and so many “things,” detachment is great practice.

Sometimes it’s time to let go; sometimes it’s time for the new.

© Erika M. Schreck and Turtle Healing Energy, 2013. All rights reserved.