Cáit Ní Dhuinnín

1988 / Ireland

(a pebble beach)

“Lie on the ground,” she suggested. “Consider how you relate to them.”

“Mmmm,” I replied in a non-committal way, and to myself, “How can I relate to these stony things? They do not speak or move or interact with me. I want to crack them open.”

But I lie there and wait and wonder what will happen.

(a hilltop)

The surfaces of the stones are moist to touch. Cooled by the sea air the rough grey does not call to be embraced. Nevertheless, arms wrap around, body presses in. The stones and the bones.

Minerals, minerals, minerals.

Standing, leaning, head, hips, knees, elbows.

(a conversation)

How does it feel to be so solid? How does it feel to be pushed and pressed and fused and formed? Do you remember the beginning? What is your voice? Do you face backwards or forwards? How do you move? How does it feel to be liquid? How does it feel to be dug and moulded, then heated until every last drop of moisture is gone from you? How does it feel to be hacked from the hard layers and then smashed into little pieces, smaller and smaller and smaller? How does it feel to be hurled down a cliff-face, bouncing off exposed edges, bits of you and bits of cliff chipping at each other, intermingling? What is it like to be smoothed by the ocean?