27/09/2025
I love hag stone soooo powerful 🙏❤️ and beautiful
A hole worn by water becomes a window for the eye.
Along storm coasts and pebble beaches you find them—hag stones, adder stones, holed flints the sea has carved into amulets. Folklore says they outstare the dark: hang one by the door and nightmares lose their footing; thread it on a red cord and fevers forget your name. Sailors made stricter pacts. On the quay, before a black-mouthed voyage, they laced a holed stone with three tide knots—one for a fair wind, one to keep the sea from taking too much, one only a captain could unfasten when the ocean sulked. On deck, a thumb to the stone’s aperture turned the horizon into a telescope for second sight. Sometimes what you saw was only waves braiding light; sometimes it was the shape of a homecoming you had not dared to imagine.
The beauty is how small the magic is: a pocket-sized permission to notice. Every ripple becomes a script. Every gust becomes a bargain. Stand at the wrack line at blue hour, hold the stone so the moon fits in its circle, and listen: the surf bargains with the wind, the wind bargains with your breath, and for a moment you remember that thresholds aren’t doors so much as decisions. Keep the ward. Keep the watch. Carry the hole that looks back.
Salt on your lips, a round of sky between your fingers, and the sea agreeing—almost—to be kind.
