Twitch your whiskers, run to the window, and imagine yourself as a baby lightning bolt. Can you outrun the rolling thunder in the distance? Where will you land once the storm has passed?
A full moon illuminates this symbol: Thunderheads crack open the sky. Forged in the void and sharpened by thunder, the storms you’ve weathered have only softened your edges and smoothed your surface. You are thunder-born, all-weather resistant, impermeable. But life as a rock shouldn’t be so dull.
Something war-torn and wild-edged lies beneath the thunderous glee of it all. Beneath the rust-colored sediment of the earth’s crust and the glassy black shards of hardened rhyolitic ash-flow, the past quietly folds into the present.
Beneath it all, prehistoric concretions of gas bubbles caught in cooling lava. Cured by fire, air, water, and earth, they form thunder eggs. Unearthed, they’re often mistaken for grey rocks. Their veneer is unassuming, mottled, dull. But when cracked open: unexpected bands of color, layers of fractal shapes, and milky crystal-clustered swirls of agate, opal, jasper, and chalcedony.
The hidden interior of thunder eggs reveal the history and the mystery of her. The blood, guts, and tears of time, banded together in intricate layers of monastic dream substance. The secret landscape of seven generations reaching forward into the future and seven generations stretching back into the past sparkle with brilliant iridescence inside each thunder egg. They wait patiently for someone to crack them open underneath the night sky.
Thunderheads crack open the sky. Unearthing. Cloudbusting. Getting to the bottom of things. Cracking it wide open. This symbol asks you to look beneath the surface. What will you find?
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The casual essence of: the color of a centuries-old blood stain, the wish-full angels that leave fulgurite tubes hidden in sand, the hearty warmth of F major, the smell of wet coriander, and the twee, conversational lilt of prairie grass.