Cast no Stone (at these stones)

Most of you, dear readers, will never understand the repercussions of a strange and terrifying phenomenon — one that respects no freeway, permits no interstate remain unscathed. One that leaves its victims marked, crazed, wracked with terror. I'm speaking, of course, of suicide rocks.

They're reckless, callous; they have nothing left to lose. At once abandoned from the granite batholiths of their ancestors, or abducted by the self-interest of the mining industry, these represent the sediments that have refused to mold to the everyday life of the average countertop. They will not settle into bathroom tile, they will not grace your garden embedded with your child's handprint. And they will not lay idly by, awaiting hikers and campers to use them as a picnic perch.

These, my friends, are rocks with an agenda.

I can only say now, 48 hours after becoming another faceless victim of suicide rocks, that perhaps we've misjudged these terror-enraged stones. What could drive them to hurl themselves into unsuspecting Volkswagens on the freeway?

I don't know my aggressor. We never met until that fateful afternoon when our lives merged in an instant of screams, scratched paint and shattered glass. The rock was young, perhaps a mere 4 or 5 billion years old. He could have been anything – a monument, a temple, grinded into concrete. Instead he chose a suicide mission – one that left him broken and alone aside a puddle of tempered glass on I-15.

Of course, I can sit back and ask, "why me?" But the wondering, the unanswered questions – it's enough to make anyone crazy.

I confess, I have not always treated rocks with the respect they deserve. I've thrown them, skipped them, and more than once I fell asleep in geology 101. I didn't try to understand them – often mixing up minerals and sediments, stripping an igneous of its identity by labeling it metamorphic. My disregard quite literally came back to hit me – in the window.

And so this rock – this stone without a name who decided one fateful September day to throw his life – and himself – to the wind and into my car: who is he? I confess, anger swelled as I regained control of my vehicle and, shaking, pulled off the nearest exit. But now, with the terror of the moment swept away like the shards of glass left behind, I think of him: this desperate, passionate and abandoned stone.

I appreciate the warm-wishes of you, my family and friends, to myself and my unsuspecting car. My scratches will heal and my car, once my deductible is paid, will be good as new. But I urge you to turn your thoughts from me to this nameless stone, who lies, discarded and alone, with no company but the memory of his actions. May we all strive to understand those who we once thought of as merely pebbles and boulders. Perhaps we can polish them, refine them, and lead them to a life worthy of more than a suicide mission on I-15.

*This blog is dedicated to the nameless rock that now resides near the median of I-15 between Lindon and Pleasant Grove. Though his identity remains unknown, he appeared dark in color and deeply, deeply disturbed.