Grok

Dedication page: three tiny versions of Grok the Rock sit side by side on a smooth stone at the bottom of a nearly blank warm cream page.

For every explorer, small and large,

grokking the world in their own gentle way.

And for every small feeling

that needs only seeing,

every break set for mending

that needs only tending,

and for every true word

that stands though unheard.

With thanks to Original Grokkers:

Robert A. Heinlein "Stranger in a Strange Land"

Ted Prior "Grug"

Grok = Stranger in a Strange Land + Grug

("Grug" cleans up "Stranger" for children and adults)

Chapter One - Being

Grok and the Small Feeling

Grok the Rock sits up under the tall tree in warm morning sun, limestone back lit by golden shafts, gazing out at the wide world with gentle wonder.

Grok the Rock woke under the tall tree.

Sun was warm on his limestone back.

Grok felt happy.

He looked at the wide world

as if he was seeing it for the very first time.

Beside a clear water-hole, a tall proud emu stretches its neck high while small Grok the Rock stands nearby, looking up at the scale difference.

Soon he walked to the water-hole.

A tall emu was already there.

The emu stretched his long neck and said,

“I am the tallest. Stand behind me.”

A sturdy wombat digs a large hole in red earth; tiny Grok the Rock digs a much smaller uneven hole and looks down at it.

Then a wombat rolled up, round and solid.

“I am the strongest,” said the wombat.

“Everyone watch me dig.”

Grok tried to dig too.

His hole was small.

He felt smaller than the hole.

Grok the Rock stands slightly hunched while a kookaburra laughs from a branch above; a soft cool pebble-shape hints at the feeling in his middle.

A kookaburra laughed from a branch.

“Look at little Grok! So short! So stony!”

The small feeling grew inside Grok.

It felt like a heavy cold pebble in his middle.

Grok the Rock stands unsteadily on a log with his chest puffed out, trying to look big, little stone feet thumping the wood.

He wanted to make himself look bigger.

He stood on a log.

He puffed out his chest.

He even tried to thump the ground like the kangaroo.

It only made the cold pebble heavier.

At night Grok the Rock sits alone by a tiny campfire under a soft starry sky, arms around his knees, peaceful and accepting.

That night Grok sat alone by a little fire.

He put his arms around his knees.

He let the small feeling stay.

He did not run from it.

He did not throw it at anyone else.

Slowly the feeling softened,

like clay left in the sun.

He began to understand it.

Next morning Grok the Rock sits contentedly on a sun-warmed rock by the water-hole, quietly humming, at ease in his own size.

Next morning Grok went back to the water-hole.

He did not climb on anything.

He did not try to be taller or louder.

He simply drank,

then sat on a warm rock and hummed.

Nothing big had changed outside.

But everything felt lighter inside.

He was beginning to grok himself.

Grok the Rock finishes a cosy round nest of leaves and moss just his size, smiling with simple contentment in soft afternoon light.

He spent the day making a soft nest of leaves and moss

just the right size for a small rock fellow.

When it was finished he smiled.

It was small.

It was his.

It was enough.

From that day, when the cold pebble tried to grow again,

Grok sat still until it became quiet.

He just stayed Grok.

And that felt like the best size of all.

Chapter Two - Mending

Grok Tends It

On a sunny morning under the tall tree, Grok the Rock stands among healthy melon vines and sweet potato leaves with quiet delight.

Grok the Rock woke under the tall tree.

Grok watched his little garden of melons and sweet potatoes.

He loved watching them grow.

Every new leaf felt like a small wonder.

Pip the young echidna freezes mid-step in horror as a big melon splits open at Grok’s feet, juice and seeds spilling on the garden ground.

That afternoon his friend,

a young echidna named Pip,

hurried through the garden looking behind him

and knocked over the best melon vine.

The big melon split open on the ground.

Seeds and sweet juice spilled everywhere.

Pip curls in shame while Grok the Rock stands kind and concerned; a few bush animals gather nearby looking judgmental.

Pip froze.

His spines trembled.

“I ruined it,” he whispered.

“You will be angry. Everyone will be angry.”

Some bush creatures gathered.

“Make him go away,” muttered a possum.

“He should bring you three new melons,” said a lizard.

Grok the Rock kneels and offers a digging stick to Pip with open kindness; Pip slowly uncurls as hope returns to his eyes.

Grok looked at the broken vine.

He looked at Pip’s worried eyes.

He did not raise his voice.

He did not point his finger.

He picked up a digging stick

and began to make soft earth ready.

“Come,” said Grok gently.

“We plant new seeds together.”

Grok the Rock and Pip work side by side planting seeds, watering, and building a tiny twig fence, both with soft smiles.

Pip blinked.

Then he came close.

Together they planted.

Together they watered.

Together they built a little fence of twigs

so no one would step there again by mistake.

Pip waters thriving new melon vines with a leaf bucket while Grok the Rock watches nearby with quiet pride.

While they worked, Pip told Grok

he had been running because bigger creatures

had been chasing him and laughing.

He had not seen the vine.

The next days Pip came every morning.

He became the best water-carrier in the valley.

The new vines grew strong,

even stronger than the old ones,

because two friends cared for them.

At golden hour Grok the Rock and Pip sit beside thriving melons with another small animal included, a peaceful mended community.

When other small accidents happened

(as they always do),

Grok remembered the melon.

He helped the one who felt hurt.

He also stayed kind to the one who had done the bumping.

No one was sent away.

No one carried a long heavy hurt.

They just tended to what was broken

and the friendship felt sturdier,

right at the mended place.

Grok learned that a garden,

and a friendship,

do not stay alive by never breaking.

They stay alive by being gently put back together.

Chapter Three - Seeing

Grok and the True Word

At golden hour under the tall tree, Grok the Rock turns a finished reed water basket lined with clay, clear water sparkling inside.

Grok the Rock woke under the tall tree.

Grok liked making useful things,

and that day he worked on a water basket

woven from reeds and lined with soft clay.

By evening it held water without one drip.

He turned it in his hands

and felt the quiet joy of a thing well made.

A glossy black cockatoo with grand tail feathers perches high and speaks proudly while Grok the Rock holds his basket below.

The very next day creatures came to look.

A glossy black cockatoo with grand tail feathers landed nearby.

“That basket is clever,” said the cockatoo,

“but my idea for a basket would be far finer.

After all, I have the grandest feathers,

so my thoughts must be the grandest too.”

Some younger animals nodded hard.

They always nodded when the cockatoo spoke.

His voice was as grand as his feathers.

A humble old tortoise with a plain shell speaks softly about a handle idea while Grok the Rock listens carefully; some animals turn toward the flashy cockatoo.

Later a very old tortoise spoke in a slow soft voice.

He suggested the small change of a handle,

making it easy to carry for friends less sturdy than Grok.

His shell was plain. No one special.

A few animals turned away because the tortoise was not famous.

Side by side: a fancy feathered basket tips and leaks, while a simpler steady basket is easy to carry; Grok the Rock looks thoughtfully between them.

Grok tried both ideas.

The cockatoo’s way looked fancy

but the basket tipped and leaked.

The old tortoise’s small idea

made Grok's basket comfortable

and steady for everyone.

Grok the Rock places the sturdy good basket and a plain weaving pattern under the tall tree for anyone to use, open and free.

Grok sat with the two baskets side by side.

He did not look at feathers.

He did not look at age or fame.

He only looked at which basket held water best

and felt kindest in the hand.

He kept the better way.

Then he left both the good basket

and the plain pattern for weaving it

under the big tree for anyone to use or copy.

No name on it. No “ask me first.”

Young animals carefully test baskets with their own paws; the cockatoo is off to the side while Grok the Rock smiles quietly in the background.

Some animals still waited to hear what the cockatoo thought

before they decided if a thing was good.

But more and more little ones

began to try things for themselves.

They listened to Grok’s quiet words

the same way they listened to the grand cockatoo’s words,

and then they tested everything with their own paws.

They were grokking the true, the what not the who.

At golden hour Grok the Rock sits contentedly under his tall tree with the good basket beside him as animals of all kinds move freely together.

Grok felt peaceful.

He did not need the biggest voice.

He only needed true things.

And Grok saw that true things

could come from a grand bird

or a dusty tortoise

or a small rock fellow under a tree.

As long as someone was free to say

“that does not work”

and still stay welcome in the valley,

the true word could keep walking

on its own strong legs.

Three Quiet Stories

Being · Mending · Seeing

Grok the Rock

Three Quiet Stories

Being · Mending · Seeing

Chapter One - Being

Chapter Two - Mending

Chapter Three - Seeing