Marbles ... spheres of colored glass. When we were little we played marbles pretty much all the time. We would have friendly little games and sometimes week long tournaments. Somehow in my group of marble shooters it became understood that at the end of the high stakes session around the circle, everyone would get their marbles back ... no keeps ... you could admire the marbles you had won in that particular round and maybe even brag among yourselves about how many times that particular marble had been warmed in your sweet little hand ... but even the crybabies knew that their marbles were only being shared ... briefly ... every marble would go home in a familiar pouch or coffee can. No doubt that hard and fast rule was devised by the moms.

I forgot about playing marbles around the same time that I started wearing my hair in a ponytail rather then two too tight braids ... probably the same year I got my first bow (the kind that comes with arrows) ... probably the summer my brother fell out of a tree and broke his arm. Later ... strolling through a junk store (aka antique shop) I walked up on a mason jar full of old marbles ... I recognized the vintage with my own eyes ... the same eyes that had rested a few inches from a red dirt circle lining up a shot. Some one's junk ... a reminder of treasured moments now recalled. Ring 'em up please. That was the beginning of my marble collection. I especially like round pieces of glass. Remember the movie Men in Black? Orion's belt (the cat's collar) holds a universe ... tiny and perfect ... precious like borrowed moments in the sun ... moments infused with alive ... it looks like a marble. I like to remember those carefree days ... laying on my tummy or sitting cross-legged on the ground drawing circles in the dirt and playing ... just playing ... everyone knew it wasn't for keeps ... the rules of engagement were specific ... just for fun.

     
“Most people are on the world, not in it - having no conscious sympathy or relationship to anything about them - undiffused, separate, and rigidly alone like marbles of polished stone, touching but separate” ~ John Muir