The Endless Lessons of Stillness

The five things I've learned from stacking rocks

I walk into the hotel conference room, where a large oval of chairs is encircled by small mounds of rocks. It’s the first few moments of a Front Row Dads retreat, so I think nothing of it. Such odd phenomenon are common occurrences at FRD. In the end, they always make sense.

On day two of the retreat, we stack rocks.

Each dad chooses one of the piles, and we are given ten minutes to stack the rocks in whatever configuration we wish. The Scots have a word for such man-made piles of rocks: cairns. In the ancient Celtic tradition, they were used as landmarks, especially for burial sites. Also, it was customary to carry a rock to a mountaintop and add it to the pile at the peak. And in Highland folklore, warriors would add a rock to a cairn prior to battle, and anyone who survived would return afterward to reclaim it, the remaining rocks a memorial to the dead.

At the retreat, our purpose is much less dire. The activity is a meditation. An opportunity for stillness, awareness, and self-examination.

I choose a pile, set a timer on my watch, and begin. Immediately, I’m determined to place every rock in a single stack, to make the tallest possible stack. Time passes, and my rocks aren’t cooperating. Five minutes left. My heart beats faster. I grit my teeth. The seconds are ticking down to zero when I look up and see a friend sitting in the lotus position, eyes closed, breathing evenly, as his rocks all sit separately on the floor in front of him, none of them touching. He and the rocks become my teacher:

Much of the stress in my life is self-created, arising from manufactured goals that are mostly a fabrication of my own imagination. I’m as free to rest and to breathe as my friend, but I rarely give myself the freedom to do so. The stealer of my peace is me.

After the retreat, I bought a bunch of landscaping rocks, placed them in a big pile in our sitting room, and invited everyone in the family to stack cairns whenever they wanted. There’s something wonderful about walking by the room and seeing that a new stack has appeared. And when I stack them myself, the rocks and the stillness teach me something different every time.

Here’s a handful of those lessons:

One time, I was tempted to topple someone else’s pile in order to harvest a rock that would be perfect for my stack. It was a reminder that creativity is not a competitive endeavor with a scarcity of resources. There’s enough inspiration to go around. Make what you can with what the Muse has given you today, and let go of your jealousy about what the Muse gave to someone else.

Another time, I used only five rocks—two very uneven rocks which, when propped together, served as a solid, flat foundation for three smaller rocks. It took about a minute. Then I spent ten minutes observing it, until I saw my family in it. Separately, my wife and I would make a pretty imbalanced foundation for our three children but, when leaning on each other, the kids have something more solid to build their lives on.

Each time, I learn that starting fast is never as effective as starting slow, observing, carefully choosing the rocks I want to use, and then eventually stacking. In this, I’m reminded that our best doing always arises from a thoughtful being. Our wisest actions proceed from careful contemplation. Too often, I get the order backward. Less so these days, though, thanks to the cairns.

And perhaps the most important lesson of all: I can tell when I’m about to overreach. There’s a feeling in my gut when I know adding just one more rock will cause the whole thing to come toppling down. I’m connecting with my intuition about my balance and my limits and the yin-and-yang of things. I’m trusting my soul, and finding better balance in every other activity of life, as well.

Just this morning—back-to-school day—I learned another lesson.

While I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I had time to stack rocks. I entered the sitting room, however, and was reminded why I hadn’t stacked in almost a week. Every single rock had been used in six stacks that felt just right, and I’d been treating the stacks like they were final. This is how I try to treat so much of life, as well. I want to arrive. I want it to feel finished. Complete.

Back-to-school will remind you, though, that we’re always starting all over again. Every year. Every month. Every day. Every moment. So, I knocked all of the piles down and I started from scratch and, in the stillness, I learned another lesson.

We find life in the making, not in the finishing.