The Persistence of Granite

Lichen grows at a rate of less than a millimeter per year, slowly etching its way into the surface of bare stone, turning solid rock into the first thin layer of soil. It is a patient, silent occupation, a biological persistence that ignores the frantic pace of the world above. We often mistake stillness for inactivity, forgetting that the most profound changes in our lives occur in the quiet, unobserved intervals between our grander ambitions. We are so preoccupied with the speed of our own transit that we fail to notice the slow, steady work of becoming. Like the lichen, we are shaped by the surfaces we cling to, hardening ourselves against the elements until we, too, begin to break down the barriers that once seemed insurmountable. If we stopped moving long enough to listen to the stone, would we finally understand the rhythm of our own endurance?

Jack Hoye has captured this quiet strength in his image titled Yosemite Cliffside. The way the trees cling to the edge of the void reminds me of that same stubborn, beautiful will to exist. Does the height make you feel smaller, or does it make you feel like you are finally standing on solid ground?