TEXT
Cathryn Griffin
CONTRIBUTORS:
Barbara Taylor
Laura Marsico
Patricia Bailey
Rebecca Caldwell
Connie Bostic
Sara Jenkins
Anonymous
Cathryn Griffin
Ken Leslie
Alice Sebrell
Patrick Morris
Linda Larsen
Debra Drees
Tim Jacobs
The List
Bronwyn Vincent
Norma Smith
Anonymous
Lisa Jablow
Chuck Sikora
Lidia Morris
Jean Hess
Matt Liddle
Brenda Coates
Anonymous
Wendy Robbins
Karen Boeger
M. Roland

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                   Sub-rosa

 One time I was at the beach with some friends.  The name of the beach, the names of the friends, the content of the conversation all have faded from memory.  I do remember I was mentally and physically exhausted.  I was bored lying in the sun talking to these people.  It all seemed senseless to me.  I remember lying on my towel looking at this small stone.  There wasn’t anything particularly unique about it.  It was black, wet, very smooth and about the size of a peach pit.  It felt good in my hand.

 A few feet over was a group of rocks that the water swished around and I walked over to them to look for more stones.  I picked up a speckled one, then a yellow one, and then a piece of wave worn glass and a pottery chard.  Then I started grouping the stones and collecting more speckled ones and more yellow ones until I had little piles of different types of stones and objects.  Then I made sub categories of these stones and objects.  Some speckled stones were more speckled than others.  Some had bits of red.  These had to be placed in the correct category.

 All time seemed to stand still.  The day was over.  It was time to go back to the big vacation house, take a shower, and drink margaritas, but I couldn’t leave.

 I was worried that my collection would be washed away during the night or worse- someone might run though it and ruin my filing system.  I felt I was just beginning.  Size categories had just been implemented.  The recent discovery of weary brick fragments had to be graded and codified and the glass collection needed to be arranged by color and opaqueness.  I had just found a choice yellow speckled black beauty with a red stain.  How could I stop now?

     And then I heard the dreaded question coming from the top of the dune,  “Is everything ok?”  How could I explain my newly found vocation?  I felt the need to be composed and disimpassioned about my secret project.  I wanted to leave it sub-rosa.  Not wanting to call any more attention to myself, I left my collection and wandered back to the house.  It slowly occurred to me that everything seemed more vivid.  The texture of the sand, the color of the sky, even the sound of people laughing off in the distance had a richness to it.  As I walked up the dune the sand felt warm on my feet and each step I took felt perfect.  I wondered if could I take in a perfect breath of air.  It seemed possible that day.