Finding Presence and Peace Alongside the Unchanging Companion
by Angie Petrie
It began as a whim on a sunlit morning; a small, smooth stone, plucked from the riverbank and slipped into my pocket. I had read somewhere that carrying a stone could be grounding, a reminder of earth’s ancient calm amid our swirling days. But today, I decided to go further. I would journey with the stone, not merely as a passenger, but as a companion. I would check in with it, hold it, and see what living alongside something so steadfast might reveal.
We rush, we fret, we pursue. Our phones chirp, our to-do lists grow, and our minds race ahead to meetings and mishaps yet to come. The stone, though, remains as it is, unmoved by ambition, untouched by anxiety. Its weight is honest, and its presence serene. I marvel at how it sits, patient and self-contained, asking nothing from me. It does not need to be charged or consulted; it does not hunger for affirmation or praise. The stone simply is.
In the hush of early hours, I reach into my pocket and feel the stone’s hard coolness against my palm. I ask it, silently, what it needs. Its answer is unspoken, yet clear: nothing. Not a single thing. While I scramble to prepare breakfast, answer emails, and plan my day, the stone waits, unruffled. There’s a lesson in this stillness, a gentle invitation to just be; to exist, as the stone does, without the constant urge to improve or achieve.
As the day unfolds, I find myself wondering how much of my life is shaped by movement and change. Every moment is measured: progress, accomplishment, evolution. But the stone invites another way. It reflects the possibility of contentment in the present. As I walk around my garden ready for my usual morning live on Facebook, I let the stone roll in my fingers. Its surface is cool, its edges worn smooth by time and water. It has been shaped, certainly, but right now it can rest, content in its own form. This brings up questions for me. Can I rest in my own form today? Can I be ok with my worn edges and smooth, rather round, lines? Am I constantly seeking to change who or what I am for the good of some unrealistic goal? What if I were to rest in this contentment for a day?
Throughout the day, I check in with the stone whenever my thoughts grow frantic. It is a quiet witness to my inner weather: my worries, my judgments, my fears. And each time I grasp it, I am reminded: the stone does not berate me for my flaws. It does not demand perfection or productivity. It offers, instead, a model of radical acceptance. I begin to imagine what it would be like to extend this same acceptance to myself: to let go of the stories that say I must always strive, always change, always do.
At noon, I sit on a chair under the trees' canopy at the end of my garden. My mind is still buzzing from ideas and experiences of the morning, but the stone is silent, content in its stillness. I decide to meditate, stone in hand, and notice how its presence grounds me. Its simple weight anchors my breath, slows my racing mind. What if, I wonder, I could greet my anxious thoughts the way I greet this stone, not with resistance, but with gentle curiosity and kindness?
We are creatures of narrative, as Brené Brown reminds us. Our brains collect data, then stitch together stories; often incomplete, sometimes unkind. The stone is a counterbalance to this tendency. It does not invent drama or demand meaning. It simply exists, fully present in each moment. Journeying with the stone, I am prompted to ask: What stories am I telling about myself today? Are they true, or merely the “shitty first drafts” of a busy mind? (See previous blog for context)
With the stone in my pocket, the world feels softer, somehow. Waiting in line at the post office, I hold it and recall its patience. During a stressful call, I press it between my fingers and remember its quiet endurance. The stone teaches me that joy can be found not in excitement, but in presence; the kind of gentle attention that makes the ordinary shimmer with possibility.
By evening, I realise that the stone has asked for nothing all day. It has not changed, demanded, or needed anything from me. In a world that often feels transactional: relationships built on exchange and expectation, the stone’s company is a balm. It is enough to simply be together, to share a period of time without agenda or pressure.
Tongue in cheek, I imagine what the stone might say if it could speak. “I am here,” it would offer, “unchanged by your triumphs or troubles. You are enough, just as you are.” There is joy in this, a lightness that comes from letting go of striving and simply sharing space with something at peace in its own existence.
As dusk settles, I reflect on the journey. Carrying the stone was more than a grounding exercise; it became a mirror for a kinder inner narrative. The stone’s stillness encouraged me to let go of urgency and embrace presence. It invited me to trust that, like the stone, I can be enough without constant change or achievement. Perhaps tomorrow, I will carry the stone again. Or perhaps I will let its lessons echo in my heart. Either way, I know now that stillness is not emptiness, but a quiet joy; a space where new, kinder drafts of my life can be written.
Let the stone rest tonight on your bedside table, a silent witness to your day. Tomorrow, as the sun rises, perhaps you will meet it again: and greet yourself, once more, with gentle joy.