I wake in the dark to the sound of the garbage truck out on the street and the word porous in my mind.

Mmmm…a word in the mind upon first waking may be significant.

Apple’s Dictionary application defines it:

porous |ˈpôrəs|
adjective
(of a rock or other material) having minute spaces or holes through which liquid or air may pass.
• figurative not retentive or secure : he ran through a porous defense to score easily.

DERIVATIVES
porosity |pəˈräsətē; pôrˈäs-| noun
porousness noun
ORIGIN late Middle English : from Old French poreux, based on Latin porus ‘pore.’

Porosity.  Now there’s a word.  Suggesting a permeability.  An allowing of things to move and pass through.  An openness.

This past December I was on a rock-themed tour of California.  Seems stone was everywhere.  Either in the shape of some massive monolith before me, the foundation of a tower I was climbing, or as a small token in my pocket.  On more than one occasion I witnessed how these rocks had been shaped by time.

Much of what I saw would be considered to have little porosity.  And yet, despite it’s solidity, the incessant motion of repetition and time forged new shapes out of hard rock and earth.

An example:  Native grinding holes by the creekside in Central California.  When my finger tips touched the bottom, the depth of the hole was up to my elbow.

Or the classic photo op found at Pfeiffer Beach in Big Sur where water has cut through to shed light.

It’s 7:10am and I have a lunch to pack, a breakfast to make, a radio program to prep for and taxes to complete.  In summary, I gotta get on with the morning.  I’m seeking a simple way to tie ancient grinding holes, porosity and life-in-general together in a metaphorical closing sentence here.

Basically, it seems the experience of life itself shapes us.  Our beings will not remain unchanged.  For today I’ll let my form be porous and see how it feels to let it all pass through.