A rock lets itself be a rock. It has no argument with what it is. It is not trying to become anything and it’s not trying to stop being anything. It’ll sit there until it is moved and it doesn’t mind if moving ever happens. It’ll sit there for a billion years and never wonder when it’ll be time to move. A billion more years is fine. Then, without warning, someone picks it up and it has no argument with it. It’s time for this now, apparently. It’s skipped across a pond and settles on the bottom, its new home, equivalent in every way to its last home: exactly where it should be. Or it’s thrown against something hard and cracks open. It has no opinion about it. It is now three rocks instead of one and it doesn’t even know, much less care. It is completely at one with the way of it and perfectly content to be. Someone gathers it up and seals it in a jar or sets it in a wall or forgets it on a gravel road where it supports the people and animals and cars and trucks that roll over it. Or it’s pulled below the topsoil and becomes bedrock. Or it’s knocked off the surface of the earth by an asteroid and floats weightless through space for ten thousand billion years and doesn’t know the difference between any of it, always uncomplainingly exactly what it is. No worry. No suffering. No need to cease to be. Never failing to fulfill its purpose. Just total alignment with what is.
A rock lives in heaven.