A Piece of Crystal

There was this guy I knew called Zack. He was late middle age when I met him, some twenty years ago now, long white hair, a bit shaggy looking with a few day’s growth of silver beard showing through a deeply tanned face. He had the sunbaked lines of a long life’s journey worn into him, but worn smooth, not jagged-angry with the struggle of it, more of a surrender into humility and compassion.

He was sitting cross legged in a hut, in an old orchard gone wild. There were wind-chimes and dream catchers and the scent of jasmine. Koi swam ponderously in a shallow pool by his door. It was all very Zen.

I could feel myself relaxing even before I shook his hand. His smile was winning, infectious, his laughter gentle, beguiling. His eyes, a touch on the shy side, missed nothing. As with many of his kind, I felt sure he could see right through my outer layers, felt sure, of all the so called shamanic guru types I’d met by then, this one alone could restore me to myself. So I told him my story, blurted it out like so much junk I was in a hurry to be rid of, and then I waited.

He thought for a long while, nodding to himself as he ran back over my tale, then took a piece of rock from his pocket – a piece of clear quartzite, roughly hexagonal, a couple of inches long.

“You want this?” he asked.

I’d no idea what special powers it was supposed to have, but yes, I wanted it. I fancied I could sense its energy from afar, my body tingling in anticipation of its healing balm.

“How much?” I asked.

“Fifty quid,” he said.

That was a lot of money for a piece of crystal.

“So, you want it or not?”

I swallowed, nodded, handed over the cash. The crystal settled in my palm, and I felt it warming me. He didn’t say what I should do with it – I mean if I should keep it next to my skin or something. Instead we drank tea and chatted about nothing really, just this and that – about the weather, the news. I think he liked me. I was already feeling better than I had in years, just being with him.

As I was leaving he turned to me and said. “Listen my friend, you need to eat better, exercise more and work less.”

Sure, I knew that. I’d been slowly killing myself, telling myself I couldn’t help it, that even though the answer was right in front of me I simply couldn’t get a handle on myself. I was like a runaway train – bound to leap the rails sooner or later. I needed someone on the brake, because it seemed I was too scared to touch it myself.

“What about the crystal?” I asked. “What do I do with it?”

He shrugged. “Do whatever you like. It’s just a piece of rock. Pretty though.”
He smiled mischievously, then held out my money as if to offer it back while his empty palm extended for the crystal’s return. I looked at the crystal, realised of course that’s all it was: just a piece of rock, that I might have paid a couple of quid for it in any bonkers New Age store. I would not find myself nor any kind of peace in it, nor in any material thing.

I felt humble. “It’s okay,” I said, slid it down into my pocket. “I’ll keep it.”

It was a valuable lesson, a turning point, brought about as usual in the most underhand way. It was a good investment though – he didn’t charge me a penny for his wisdom after that, asked only for my occasional company. Zack lived to a ripe old age, and I had the pleasure of knowing him up the end. He died with an easy heart, and smiling.

I still have that piece of crystal.