A colorful bed of rocks, high in a mountain lake in Glacier National Park. Stones worn smooth by years and years of tumbling against each other. Sand and pebbles washed over their surfaces, wearing down the rough places, flattening, leveling, polishing. Water roaring, rocking, smashing them over and over until every bump, every blemish, every bit of roughness is gone and all that remains are silky, colorful surfaces. Beautiful to behold.
A small rock tumbler. Three levels of grit. Two weeks with rough, two with medium, two with fine. Then another with polish and a final rinse with soap and water. And my tiny rocks are turned into little gemstones. Silky, colorful surfaces. Beautiful to behold.
How long for a river rock? Hundreds of years, maybe thousands?
How long for the small rocks in the tumbler? A month, maybe two?
And how about me? A lifetime for the tumbling, the bumping, and the grit to wear down my roughness and to smooth my edges.
