Tell It To The Rocks
How The Old Man of Stoer taught me to stop shouting into the wind.
The atmosphere shifts when it turns out we’ve parked the campervan miles away from the site we came to see. Already flustered, we start our ascent at Stoer Lighthouse, its sturdy white walls battered by the elements. The path narrows, drawing us closer to the cliff’s edge. The air is tense with silence, broken only by the roar of waves and the cries of seabirds, as the ocean below churns into a violent mass. Grey clouds accumulate ahead.
‘I feel uncomfortable always making decisions. Where to go, what to do, what to eat,’ I say, my words carried off by the wind.
‘That’s not fair. I come up with plenty of plans,’ you react, shoulders tensing.
‘I suggested this trip, and every morning, you leave it to me to decide where we’re off next.’
‘Because you always seem to have something worked out already.’
You stride ahead, canvas sneakers saturated by the boggy ground. I quicken my pace, conscious of the storm gathering over the hills.
Like the seagulls' urgent swooping, I've been rushing around lately, desperate to soak in as many natural wonders as possible. Months trapped in an office have left me disconnected from nature, from beauty itself. Magic and stories have been calling me back to wonder. The Old Man of Stoer glimmered in my imagination ever since meeting him in our guidebook. The Nordic giant frozen in stone, destined to stand in the sea forever, beckoned me. I'm in need of a strong man, someone won’t crumble under pressure.
‘Can we just talk?’ I blurt out. ‘I have been feeling unheard lately.’
‘That’s such an overreaction,’ you snap. ‘Why bring that up now, while we're trying to have a holiday?’
‘Because I want things to be better for us.’
A shouting match by the sea, in a spot meant to be enjoyed. Our voices are no match for the waves, our argument as futile as yelling into the surf. It releases my anger, and I do feel lighter, but nothing really changes. Just like the sea thrashing against rock, I throw myself at the problem again and again, expecting it to soften. I come at it with too much intensity, and you just turn to stone.
I storm out in front, fighting back tears. You trail behind, sunglasses still on despite the darkness. Then suddenly, he rises before me—Old Man Stoer.
The mace-shaped rock stands tall and proud, its top-heavy form evoking a warrior with broad shoulders. His dark, rugged mass is streaked with horizontal cracks, like battle scars inflicted by the relentless pounding of the sea. Drawn to the imposing shape, I break into a run.
I sit down on a rock, tears and snot streaking my face. Jutting out alone from the water, Stoer seems disconnected from his tribe. From my new perspective, his broad shoulders now seem weighed down, as though burdened by the sorrows of the world. Though forever changing shape, the Old Man has been here for centuries. He has seen it all. The wind blows my tears towards him. He takes the weight of my sadness.
Had Stoer always been this way? Or was he once alive, like you, prideful and unable to back down? I picture him: a fierce fighter, handsome with sharp edges, immovable even to those who loved him. His heart on the battlefield, each provocation met with retaliation. I imagine his wife trying to reach him, only to be met with coldness, until one day she left. In that silence, he turned to stone.
Stoer became an Old Man, frozen in time yet eroding, while younger, less rigid men conquered him. Now, they climb his hunched back to scale his summit, leaving their equipment abandoned on his head.
In his old age, Stoer is able to shoulder the weight of messy emotions. He stands unmoved by blame—his shadow has been fully integrated. As a young man, his ego was too fragile. In his isolation, with only hungry gulls and fulmars for company, he became a good listener.
That’s when I learn to tell it to rocks. To hold back, to let the storm inside me settle before I speak. When my head is full of complaints, I write them down while overlooking cliffs. Sometimes silence holds more power than words. I’m learning to wait for the moment you’re open to hearing me. We still have so much time, and you do love me.