As I was walking, I saw a wall of stone. It had grown in sober layers, lying politely horizontal for millennia as a slow accretion of sandstone built it massive and immoveable.
Then suddenly, with some violent burst upending the earth’s crust, part was thrust giddily skyward while part lodged deep into the unbreathing earth. The stone said, “Fear not: neither the heights nor the dive! Sometimes we are turned topsy turvy and then we either get a better view, or we learn surprising secrets. All shall be well.”
I saw another face of stone. This one said to me, “Aha! I see that your face, like mine, is deeply lined. We have seen life, you and I. Those smooth young stones, they don’t know what they’re in for. Don’t worry about the wrinkles. And all shall be well.”
I saw a third wall of stone. This one had toppled flat and become a sort of natural paving. It was worn, barely visible. I squinted to make it out, a fossil of its former grandeur. The stone said, “Do not pity me in my humility. All creatures who pass must walk on me and most don’t even notice, unless they stumble. But I get to feel the weight of their sorrow and the spirit of their joy. I have become the Earth. And all manner of thing shall be well.”
So that’s where St. Julian of Norwich got it, that anchoress sealed away in the walls of her church: the stones told her. All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
Contemplative Seeing 