Woolf walked into the River Ouse with stones in her pockets. Full pockets. Riverstones dense
in their beauty and smoothness. I wonder if she felt the stones in her hands, felt both
surfaces speak to one another, skin touched and stone held. I wonder if
this gave her pause on the shore, held her attention. I imagine her
enveloped in the act of holding a stone, living a moment longer.
This is beautiful but beauty alone will not save anyone.
It is without an ethics. It must be swallowed whole.
This is about attention.
Hold the smooth dark stone tight in your fist until it softens from pressure and heat.
It was formed this way in the first place. Acts of attention soften our felt edges.
