One day at the Louvre,
I was absorbed
in the quiet contemplation
of the stones beneath my feet—
the sun warming the great square,
its light brushing the old stone
with softness and heat—
when this vision came to me.
I was a boy.
Maybe seven, maybe ten.
Somewhere on the spectrum.
Crouched in a corner of the square,
heels flat, arms resting on my knees,
eyes wide open,
present.
The sun warmed my back.
I reached out with one finger,
touched the nearest stone,
and said,
softly,
“Ha.”
That was all.
And it changed the world.
Then I pulled my hand back,
shifted my weight a few inches,
moved both feet forward just a bit—
and touched the next stone.
Then another.
And another.
Time didn’t matter.
The whole courtyard needed to be touched.
Every stone.
Each one part of the task.
And for a moment, I thought:
I haven’t come across a better goal than this in years.
To make contact.
Stone by stone.
Street by street.
With the calm, stubborn patience of the earth.
And yes—
to have character.
The faint, colored ripples that shimmered around the boy
as he moved from stone to stone?
That was, I think,
his quiet determination.
