Two rings and a rock. That’s what the box that arrived in my mail last week contained. Specifically, two turquoise rings and a geode. For those of you who are not fascinated by geology, a geode is not just any old rock, but a very special kind of rock.

In their unbroken state, geodes are pretty unremarkable, resembling dirty snowballs more than anything. But their true wonder lies hidden inside: break a geode open, and you are confronted by sheer beauty, as their interiors are crystalline and streaked with wondrous colors.

There was no note or letter inside the box, but I knew immediately upon seeing them the origin of the items inside–they were sent by (get ready, complicated family ties ahead) the niece of Ann, my grandmother’s best friend.

I knew they weren’t sent by Ann herself, as her niece had informed me several months ago of Ann’s passing, an event I mourned, even though it had been more than two decades since I had last seen Ann in person.

She was a remarkable lady, spending a great deal of time with my mother, my siblings, and me. It was she who gave me and my sisters our awful (and now laughable) bowl haircuts; who gave me a new stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh every year of my childhood; and who took me and my sister to the rock shows (not concerts, folks, think geology here) where we were first introduced to the geode.

I often think that Ann was a stand-in for us kids for her dear friend, my grandmother, who passed away when I was only four years old. Ann certainly felt like a grandmother to me, anyway. Even after she moved away, we still stayed in touch via phone calls, letters, and a yearly holiday greeting card.

It was important to me to maintain those connections with her, to share with her all of the important events of my life–my college graduation, my first teaching job, my marriage, the unexpected death of my mother, the births of my three children, all the “biggies.” And when I began to pursue writing, I shared that with her, too, not knowing what her reaction might be. She’d always chided me forcefully on my lack of interest in becoming a mathematician (stop laughing–the woman thought there was nothing I couldn’t do if I only put my mind to it), so I wasn’t sure if she’d agree with my formal decision to pursue the literary arts.

She surprised me, though, as she often did: “Well, it’s about time,” she said. “Your grandmother wrote, your mother wrote, your brother writes, and you’re a gifted writer, too, always have been. I was surprised you went into teaching. It’s about time you figured it out.” She could’ve knocked me over with a feather.

That was several years ago. I’ve been writing steadily ever since, continuing to work at something Ann clearly thought I was meant to do. But when you’re pursuing a dream, doubts come with the territory, and I’ve had my share of those (as you know, if you’re a regular reader). I’ve been having some doubts lately, as I undertook the latest revision of my book (the one I’m going to send to my editor for help when it’s completed).

I did a lot of thinking, a lot of soft writing, and nothing really seemed to break. And then, the box arrived, with a geode and two rings, both of which had belonged to Ann.

I lifted the geode from the box, running my fingers along the rough edges of its crusty exterior. Then I turned it over, and gazed in wonder at the crystals lining the cut side of this miraculous rock.

And it hit me. Like a rock. I don’t know what to call it, inspiration, a divine spark–I don’t know, but with the weight of that rock in my hand, I was ready to write, all doubts were gone.

In life, Ann always reminded me a little bit of the geodes that fascinate and enchant me still–unassuming, deceptively rough around the edges, not particularly interested in appearances. But her soul, the person she was, was incredible–bright, sparkling, and inspiring. She’s my muse now, and I keep her rock next to me as I write. I hope to do it justice someday.

Thank you, Ann.