Rock of Ages

We've had a sub in Psychology of Diverse Learners all week, while our normal instructor is at the beach with his in-laws. This being a summer course, however, that means this "sub" is teaching us for 25% of the entire course, so I wonder if one can really call her a sub.

She meant well, of course. She led us through guided imagery exercises to get us in touch with our empathic listening abilities, had us role-play student-teacher and parent-teacher conferencing, and told us one too many stories about her own children. And today (her last day) she gave us each a rock.

She passed a basket of rocks around--they were nice rocks, polished, some of them quartzy even, of the type you might find to weigh down a decorative glass vase. We each chose one (later we would find out that actually the rock had "chosen us"). Mine is small, sort of bland peachy-pink, and I don't know why it chose me. Our teacher told us that we were not very different from these rocks--we are each unique. We have our own patterns and textures. We would look very nice at the bottom of a glass vase. Just kidding. We got to keep our rock, to remind us of our own uniqueness.

Now, I love Mr. Rogers. I really, really do. But this gesture seemed to me some strange, twisted spin on "you're the only person in the whole world like you." Mostly because, what am I supposed to do with it? I don't want it; I'm trying not to accrue Stuff. It's a pretty ordinary rock, not a beautiful amethyst geode or anything that you'd want to put on your mantelpiece to remind you of the beauty of the natural world. It would get in the way anywhere I might display it, weigh down my purse, which is already heavy enough, and I figure creating a rock-labyrinth is too sacred a thing to waste on rented property. But this teacher (she's really not a teacher--she's a psychologist, and it shows) endowed this rock with a sense of importance. She made us hold them in our hands, close our eyes, and feel their presence. She equated their rockdom to our humanity. So how can I just throw my rock away?

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it. I could leave it in the classroom, and maybe someone else will think it's their rock and take it with them. I could suck up the weight and keep it in one of my bags, as a talisman of my own uniqueness. I could take it with me to the park I've found where I walk Susan's dog and let her run free, off the leash, as she trots around devouring more smells than you or I will ever be able to imagine. I might do that. Take it there, throw it in the creek, and let it, through time, burrow into the sand and be washed even smoother by the water. And some small extension of myself will be there too, a tiny weight anchored to the world.