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AROS – A River Of Stones – small moments of observation and contemplation

During the month of January 2011 I’ll be taking part in a writing project called AROS which I came across on Twitter. It’s fun and it’s good writing discipline. Perhaps you’d like to try it too – it’s not too late.

 When I first saw the word attached to a # (hashtag), I thought it referred to the Scots Gaelic word ‘aros’ which means ‘house’ and I was intrigued enough to investigate on that basis alone.

However, it turned out that AROS stands for A River Of Stones. It is an international project started by Fiona Robyn & her fiancé, Kaspa to encourage people to engage with the world through writing a short observational piece every day during January.

The challenge is to pay attention to one thing every day during the month of January and write it down. They call these pieces of writing small stones. They say that ‘a small stone is a polished moment of paying proper attention.’

They also say they’re especially interested in both ‘writers’ and ‘non-writers’ taking part – it’s not about the finished product, it’s about the process.

You can read more about the project and see lots of samples of stones at

I‘ll post my daily stones here on the blog. Below are the first week’s efforts.

Let me know if you decide to take up the challenge – or perhaps you already have.

Jan 1st

Open the door, let out the old, admit the new, embrace change and possibility.

Jan 2nd

Intensely, incense, wood-burning smoke, lavender polish and coffee. Wraparound aromas focus and enclose the writer at her desk.

Jan 3rd

Greylags chip at the frost under a cold, weak sun, find seed potatoes – and hope.

Jan 4th

Robin on the fence, feathers ruffled by the wind, braced himself and hung on, still happy to be here.

Jan 5th

Snow on ice – going is tough. Brakes grate, tyres crunch, progress slow. But I will get there.

Jan 6th

Twelfth Night – no epiphany, just quiet, soft light, contemplation of where to go now. Any way – but back.

Jan 7th

Walls of grey sleet advance up the loch. Land and sea blur in the mist. Bedraggled horses nibble the sodden, lifeless grass – January.

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