Shimmering wet, amidst gravel that must wait millennia to become sand, a rounded stone, almost the shape of a perfect egg, sits. It too, is pulled and pushed with the tides as they advance and recede, and the granules surrounding it have polished it smoothly. It looks like it would fit into the palm of one's hand, a tool for worry and a soothing distraction. Why must we worry so, when worry itself will never affect an outcome? What will be will be, and the sands know this...working in the only way they know, taking sweet, healing time to finish the job.