Reclaiming Lost Childhood Memories One Rolling Stone at a Time
There are a handful of unused birthday and Christmas gifts sitting in the closet of my old bedroom at my mom’s house. My room, now a furnished guest room, is mostly unrecognizable except for the closet space which is still home to a partially used science kit, Spanish language cassettes, more than one scarf making kit, a macramé kit, a paper making kit, a pressed flower kit, a candle making kit, and miscellaneous abandoned craft supplies.
I had a busy childhood.
I pressed wildflowers gathered during walks in the fields near our track home, created crystalized rocks from chemicals, made paper for cards, molded candles, and started a couple crooked scarves.
Each box housed a treasure chest of shared memories of learning a new skill with my mom, frustration at fumbling through wordy directions and diagrams solo, or the satisfaction that comes from creating something new on one’s own.
Somehow the unused rock tumbling kit made its way to the garage donation pile where it mysteriously captured my attention with the same fervor it did on the day I unwrapped it.
I remember really wanting to tumble those rough rocks to add them to my prized shoebox rock collection. My rock collection is long gone, but the pictures of the gemstones on the outside of the box reminded me a lot of the stone and crystal jewelry now in fad on Pinterest and in the yoga communities I follow.
Why didn’t I make this? I thought, as I took the box home with me.
I learned the answer to that question later that evening after I dutifully filled the rock barrel with rough rocks, grit, and water, screwed on the top, and watched it leak all over the place as the barrel noisily whirled around, driven by a small motor.
In an instant I remember opening the box over two decades ago, breaking the rubber O ring that sealed the lid, leaving my 1980’s internet-deprived parents left to box up the contents for a later date when a solution could be found.
Oh.
I scanned the internet for replacement lids. The last time they appeared to be in stock was about 5 years ago. I smothered coconut oil, the 21st century’s version of duct tape (ie. the solution for everything), over the gaps that leaked the murky liquid, and began noisily rolling the rocks leak-free.
It was a time-consuming venture — one that my mom repeatedly stated she was glad wasn’t happening at her house.
As the rocks rolled on for over two weeks, I longed for a garage to muffle the whirling dervish.
The experience didn’t quite produce the feeling I’d hoped for.
One weekend a year or two ago, my husband sweetly came home with Hungry Hungry Hippos for a date night in after I mentioned how badly I wanted to own the game as a child. With much laughter and aggression, our hippos gobbled up the white balls, and the date night ended on a goofy tone.
This didn’t feel like that. Tumbling rocks felt like childhood.
As I obediently followed the directions, problem-solved, impatiently waited, and painstakingly cleaned out the barrel between each step, I felt the swirling emotions of childhood.
I felt the curiosity, the eagerness, the frustration, the tenacity, the impatience, and finally satisfaction.
Watching the emotions ebb and flow somehow became a reminder in managing my emotions — experiencing growth, without embracing the pain that comes with it.
The smooth rocks I produced aren’t hiding in some box now. With the help of a little too much glue they’re adorning rings, earrings, necklaces, and keychains. Each stone is a tiny memento of embracing my journey back to childhood.
It’s a journey I hope to take more regularly, but I won’t be tumbling rocks anymore.
