{"id":733,"date":"2025-05-14T18:38:00","date_gmt":"2025-05-14T18:38:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/2025\/05\/14\/stone-and-signal-episode-2-tales-that-touch-the-earth\/"},"modified":"2026-07-12T23:04:51","modified_gmt":"2026-07-12T23:04:51","slug":"stone-and-signal-episode-2-tales-that-touch-the-earth","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/2025\/05\/14\/stone-and-signal-episode-2-tales-that-touch-the-earth\/","title":{"rendered":"Stone and Signal – Episode 2: Tales That Touch The Earth"},"content":{"rendered":"

Welcome back to Stone and Signal.  If you haven’t heard the first episode yet you can find information on Episdoe 1 here.<\/a><\/p>\n

 The Podcast Links<\/h1>\n

Edpisode 2 on YouTube<\/a><\/p>\n

Episode 2 on Spotify<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

The Essay<\/a><\/p>\n

The Transcript<\/a><\/div>\n

   <\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Tales That Touch The Earth<\/h1>\n\n\n\n\n
<\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Photo by Nitin Arya: https:\/\/www.pexels.com\/photo\/photography-of-book-page-1029141\/<\/span><\/span><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n
<\/div>\n

I didn\u2019t plan to write this. Like many of the stories that find me, it arrived less as an idea and more as an ache. A pressure behind the ribs. Not urgent in the way headlines are urgent, but persistent, like something just below the surface asking to be named.<\/p>\n

In times of upheaval\u2014personal, planetary, or both\u2014I return to stories. Not the ones engineered to soothe or distract, but the ones that stay. Stories that don\u2019t demand to be decoded, only lived with. The ones that surface years later in the pause before sleep, or on a quiet walk, or in a moment of grief when no facts will do.<\/p>\n

These are not stories of escape. They are stories of return.<\/p>\n

I believe there are some truths we can only approach sideways. Direct language fails them. Arguments flatten them. But stories\u2014honest ones\u2014let us circle what hurts. What haunts. What matters. They help us metabolize what the world tries to feed us too quickly.<\/p>\n

Facts are vital, of course. They orient us. They show us where we are and what\u2019s at stake. But they rarely show us who we are. Or what we carry. Or why we care.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s the work of story.<\/p>\n

Writing now\u2014writing in a collapsing world\u2014feels different than it used to. There is always the question of usefulness, of relevance, of speed. Of whether art matters when so much is burning. And yet, story resists the burn. It holds a longer timeline. It whispers instead of shouts. It doesn\u2019t try to win. It tries to connect.<\/p>\n

The stories I write come from this space. They aren\u2019t designed to resolve, but to reveal. Not to instruct, but to accompany. Fingerprints in the Water was born from mourning\u2014from sitting with the quiet violence of microplastics and the grief of contaminated oceans. But it was also born from love. From awe. From the desire to hand younger readers something deeper than doom: the possibility of witness, of agency, of kinship with the Earth.<\/p>\n

Earlier stories, like The Life of Phi, came from a different current. That book asked me to surrender certainty. To let the water speak\u2014not as a backdrop or a resource, but as a presence. An intelligence older than judgment. There was no conclusion waiting at the end of that book, only a kind of silence. And sometimes silence is the most honest response we have.<\/p>\n

If there is a thread through everything I write, maybe it\u2019s this: stories are not products. They are invitations. They are vessels. Not every one will reach its reader. Not every one will be understood in the moment it\u2019s encountered. But the ones that matter find their way. They settle in the body. They echo back when they\u2019re needed.<\/p>\n

And sometimes, long after the telling, something shifts. A sentence surfaces. A rhythm returns. Not with fanfare, but with familiarity. As if it had been waiting there all along.<\/p>\n

That is the quiet work of story. To mark. To hold. To remind.<\/p>\n

And if something in a story stays with you\u2014if it opens something unnamed or offers a shape to your wondering\u2014I hope you carry it gently. Not as an answer. But as a companion. A flicker of signal in the deep.<\/p>\n

Even in the dark, that\u2019s enough.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Stone and Signal \u2013 Episode 2: Tales That Touch The Earth – Transcript<\/h1>\n

Welcome to Stone and Signal<\/em>. I\u2019m
\nLawrence Nault.<\/p>\n

Today, I want to talk about stories. Not just the ones we read or write, but
\nthe ones that hold<\/em> something\u2014the ones that
\ncarry land and loss and longing in their bones. The kind of stories that grow
\nlike roots through us and remind us who we are, even when everything else feels
\nlike it\u2019s shifting beneath our feet.<\/p>\n

Stories are how I\u2019ve always made sense of the world. Especially in times of
\ncollapse. When the ground feels uncertain\u2014politically, ecologically,
\nemotionally\u2014I return to stories. I write them. I read them. And sometimes, I
\nsit quietly and let them find me.<\/p>\n

Why Stories Still Matter<\/strong><\/p>\n

Facts can tell us what\u2019s happening to the
\nplanet and the world around us. But stories?
<\/span><\/p>\n


\nStories go deeper than that.
<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n


\nStories help us feel<\/i> it.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThey aren\u2019t just escapism. They aren\u2019t just a respite from the busy world.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThey\u2019re emotional knowledge.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThey\u2019re how we process what the facts alone can\u2019t hold.
<\/span><\/span>\u201cThe point of a story can penetrate deeper than the point of a bullet.\u201d  
<\/b><\/span><\/span>
\nBecause now, the noise is everywhere.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThe urgency is relentless.
<\/span><\/span>
\nAnd sometimes, the hardest thing to do is feel something all the way through
\nwithout shutting down.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThey let us linger in complexity.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThey let us sit with characters who are flawed and afraid and still trying.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThey remind us that we\u2019re not alone in our ache\u2014or our hope.
<\/span><\/span>
\nNot just stories for the sake of telling them. But stories that carry
\nsomething.
<\/span><\/span>
\nStories shaped like offerings.
<\/span><\/span>
\nStories that don\u2019t chase attention\u2014but wait for the listener who needs them.
<\/span><\/span>
\nIf the facts feel like too much\u2014or not enough\u2026
<\/span><\/span>
\nMaybe what you need isn\u2019t more information.
<\/span><\/span>
\nMaybe it\u2019s a story.
<\/span><\/span>
\nOne that just lets you feel your way forward, for a little while.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThat\u2019s what this space is for.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n

There are studies and statistics about climate
\nchange, biodiversity collapse, and pollution. The graphs are stark. The numbers
\nare terrifying. We know the science\u2014if we want to know it. But even then, the
\nscience isn\u2019t always easy to hold. It changes as new discoveries are made. It
\nasks us to understand probabilities, uncertainties, evolving models. It demands
\na kind of precision that can feel distant, even disorienting.<\/span><\/p>\n

But what moves people\u2014what stays with them\u2014is
\noften a character, a moment, an image. A single line of dialogue. A breath held
\nbetween hope and grief.<\/span><\/p>\n

Storytelling is one of the oldest forms of
\nhuman understanding. Before there were maps, there were myths. Before data,
\nthere were tales passed from voice to voice. Stories carried knowledge. They
\ncarried warnings. They carried dreams. And they still do.<\/span><\/p>\n

That\u2019s why fiction matters. That\u2019s why poetry
\nmatters.
<\/span><\/p>\n

Stories let us wrap grief in language. They
\nlet us speak of longing without always naming it. They allow us to imagine what
\ncould be\u2014while still honoring what\u2019s already been lost.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s a quote of mine that\u2019s circulated for
\nalmost twenty years. It\u2019s simple, but I still believe it:
<\/span><\/p>\n

That line came from a place of deep
\nconviction. At the time, I was working on a novel that wrestled with political
\nviolence and the power of narrative. And I kept seeing how story could cut
\nthrough noise. How it could open something in people\u2014not through argument, but
\nthrough empathy.<\/span><\/p>\n

And that hasn\u2019t changed.<\/span><\/p>\n

In many ways, it\u2019s only become more important.
<\/span><\/p>\n

Stories can hold space for that feeling.
<\/span><\/p>\n

I think that\u2019s part of what Stone and
\nSignal<\/i> is about, too.
<\/span><\/p>\n

So if the world feels too loud to understand
\nright now\u2026
<\/span><\/p>\n

One that doesn\u2019t demand you believe anything.
<\/span><\/p>\n

And that\u2019s why I keep telling stories.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

My Own Stories: Dragons, Youth, and the Earth<\/strong><\/p>\n

In my own writing, I\u2019ve tried to create
\nstories that carry the weight of the world\u2014but still leave space for light.<\/span><\/p>\n

In Rephlexions<\/i>, the world is quietly
\ninfiltrated by an AI system designed by a single organization. On the surface,
\neverything seems seamless. But beneath it, control is tightening. Yet even in
\nthat world, there\u2019s space\u2014in nature, in analogue art, in the resistance that
\nbegins not with violence, but with imagination.<\/span><\/p>\n

In Inversion<\/i>, the Earth is transformed
\nby a climate shift no one saw coming. Volcanoes erupt, ice swallows the planet,
\nand ancient worlds begin to surface. But even there\u2014within the upheaval\u2014there
\nis space. For family. For quiet. For love.<\/span><\/p>\n

In my Draconim<\/i> series, I follow a group
\nof teens bonded to ancient dragons\u2014not through magic, but through shared
\npurpose. Each teen is connected to an environmental crisis: air pollution,
\nwater contamination, forest fires, habitat loss. They aren\u2019t superheroes.
\nThey\u2019re just young people who care too much to stay quiet\u2014and who find each
\nother, slowly, across distance and difference.<\/span><\/p>\n

Their dragons are old\u2014not mystical, not
\nall-powerful, but wise. Rooted.
<\/span><\/p>\n


\nThe bond is emotional. Spiritual. Intergenerational.
<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n


\nA passing of the torch.
<\/span><\/span>
\nIt\u2019s memory.
<\/span><\/span>
\nIt\u2019s protest.
<\/span><\/span>
\nIt\u2019s prayer.
<\/span><\/span>
\nAnd loss.
<\/span><\/span>
\nI had Amy\u2019s hands, carving the driftwood.
<\/span><\/span>
\nI had Kai, standing at the shoreline, watching waves that no longer seemed
\ninnocent.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a moment in the third book, Fingerprints
\nin the Water<\/i>, where Kai\u2014the teen connected to the ocean\u2014watches his
\ngirlfriend, Amy, carve a piece of driftwood. She shapes it into a version of
\nTurtle Island, surrounded by dragons and ocean creatures. It\u2019s not just art.
<\/span><\/p>\n

It holds grief. And hope.
<\/span><\/p>\n

That scene came out of a real ache. I\u2019d just
\nread a news article about whales washing up with stomachs full of garbage. I\u2019d
\nbeen listening to youth climate leaders speak with more courage than most
\npoliticians. And I wanted readers to feel<\/i> that\u2014not through statistics,
\nbut through story.<\/span><\/p>\n

I remember writing that chapter after reading
\nabout microplastics being found in human blood\u2014and brain tissue. I felt that
\nsick, sinking pressure in my chest\u2014the kind you don\u2019t have words for. But I had
\ncharacters.
<\/span><\/p>\n

Fiction let me speak what I couldn\u2019t explain.
\nWhat might not be heard\u2014if it wasn\u2019t told in a story.<\/span><\/p>\n

And I\u2019ve learned that when I write from that
\nplace\u2014not from a plan, but from that ache\u2014readers feel it too.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The Power of Story in the Age of Collapse<\/strong><\/p>\n

There are days I wonder why I keep writing.<\/span><\/p>\n

The world feels like it\u2019s unraveling. The
\nsystems we once trusted\u2014governments, institutions, technologies\u2014are showing
\ntheir cracks. The climate is no longer whispering in subtle signs. It\u2019s
\nshouting. Flooding. Burning. Shaking us awake in the middle of the night.<\/span><\/p>\n

And still, we scroll.<\/span><\/p>\n

My words often feel lost in an abyss of
\nthought and commentary, swallowed by the churn of constant content. The speed
\nof the world makes it hard to be heard unless you shout\u2014or entertain. And I\u2019ve
\nnever been good at either.<\/span><\/p>\n

In an ocean of books and podcasts and voices,
\nmine feel like the strange, luminous creatures of the deep\u2014rarely seen,
\nsurfacing only when caught by accident in a trawler\u2019s net, or glimpsed by the
\nlights of a passing submersible. Down there, I believe they shine. Quietly.
\nPatiently. But in a culture built on speed and visibility, few dive that deep.<\/span><\/p>\n

And yet, I still return to the blank page.
<\/span><\/p>\n


\nTo the mic.
<\/span><\/p>\n


\nTo the story that hasn\u2019t yet taken shape, but insists on being told.
<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n


\nNot because I believe it will change the world overnight.
<\/span><\/span>
\nBut because some things need to be said anyway.
<\/span><\/span>
\nSignals sent forward.
<\/span><\/span>
\nShelters for the truths we\u2019re not yet ready to face.
<\/span><\/span>
\nOne line that stays with a reader for years.
<\/span><\/span>
\nOne imagined world that helps someone survive this one.
<\/span><\/span>
\nAnd people, slowly, change the world.
<\/span><\/span>
\nEspecially now.
<\/span><\/span>
\nBut because I\u2019ve seen what happens when a story meets someone exactly where
\nthey are\u2014and helps them keep going, just a little longer.
<\/span><\/span>
\nThat\u2019s everything.
<\/span><\/span>
\nWater, who was here long before us\u2014and will be here long after.
<\/span><\/span>
\nWater, who remembers everything and judges nothing.
<\/span><\/span>
\nWater, who observes\u2014not with detachment, but with permanence.
<\/span><\/span>
\nTo the voice of water.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

Not because I think it will go viral.
<\/span><\/p>\n

Because stories aren\u2019t just for now. They\u2019re
\nfor what comes next.<\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019re messages in bottles.
<\/span><\/p>\n

A story can land in someone\u2019s life years after
\nit was written\u2014quietly, without ceremony\u2014and still move something. Still open a
\ndoor. Still carry a little light into a dark room.<\/span><\/p>\n

I write because I still believe we can change.
\nThat we must change. That young people can lead us. That grief, when given
\nform, can become action.<\/span><\/p>\n

And I know I\u2019m not alone.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are so many writers and artists and
\ncreators doing this work quietly, without platform or spotlight\u2014planting seeds
\nin their stories, trusting they will gr ow in unseen places. You might never
\nknow the names of some of them. You might never see their work shelved in a
\nstore. But their words matter.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sometimes, one sentence is all it takes.
<\/span><\/p>\n

Books change people.
<\/span><\/p>\n

Even now.
<\/span><\/p>\n

So I keep writing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Not because I always know how, or feel brave
\nenough, or think it\u2019s working.
<\/span><\/p>\n

That\u2019s enough.<\/span>
<\/span><\/p>\n

Reflection & Invitation<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

In The Life of Phi<\/i>, I did something
\ndifferent.<\/span><\/p>\n

I gave the story another voice\u2014an observer.
\nNot a character. Not a narrator. But something older. Something quieter.
\nSomething elemental.<\/span><\/p>\n

Water.<\/span><\/p>\n

The story is set in a near-future world where
\nan AI\u2014designed to heal the environment\u2014has been released because humanity could
\nnot change course on its own. Our species kept marching down the road of
\nenvironmental manipulation and destruction, even as the signs grew impossible
\nto ignore.<\/span><\/p>\n

And in this world, the biases of our
\nsocieties\u2014so often buried in data, in power, in policy\u2014are made visible through
\nthe lens of the AI itself. What it protects. What it sacrifices. Who it deems
\nessential. Who it does not.<\/span><\/p>\n

Religion, too, has shifted. In many places, it
\nno longer guides belief\u2014it governs it. It becomes a tool of control, not a
\nvessel of faith.<\/span><\/p>\n

And through it all\u2026 there is water.<\/span><\/p>\n

Water, who has no side.
<\/span><\/p>\n

In The Life of Phi<\/i>, water speaks at the
\nbeginning of every chapter. Its voice takes the form of poetry. A rhythm that
\nflows beside the narrative, reminding us that while humans are busy trying to
\ncontrol everything, something vaster has always been watching. <\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d like to take a moment now to listen to
\nthat voice.<\/span>
<\/span><\/p>\n

I invite you to listen with me.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

I am the first memory of Earth,<\/i><\/p>\n

Born in the violent birth of worlds,<\/i><\/p>\n

When cosmic dust danced with stellar fire<\/i><\/p>\n

And gravity drew me from the void.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

I have been ocean, cloud, and ice,<\/i><\/p>\n

Flowed through the veins of dinosaurs,<\/i><\/p>\n

Frosted the wings of ancient dragonflies,<\/i><\/p>\n

And nestled in the wombs of early mammals.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

I remember when I was mountain snow,<\/i><\/p>\n

And when I was morning dew on the first flower.<\/i><\/p>\n

I have been tears of joy and sorrow,<\/i><\/p>\n

Blood in warriors, milk in mothers.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

\u2003<\/i><\/p>\n

You look at rivers and see separation\u2014<\/i><\/p>\n

This bank, that bank, here and there.<\/i><\/p>\n

But beneath the surface, I am one flow,<\/i><\/p>\n

Moving, merging, always whole.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

I have been male sweat and female tears,<\/i><\/p>\n

Coursed through bodies of all designs,<\/i><\/p>\n

Been part of those who fit no mold,<\/i><\/p>\n

And those who transformed like me.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

In deserts, I am precious gold.<\/i><\/p>\n

In floods, I am feared destruction.<\/i><\/p>\n

In life, I am eternal change,<\/i><\/p>\n

Shifting forms but never essence.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

I have flowed through hearts that love differently,<\/i><\/p>\n

Through minds that think in varied hues,<\/i><\/p>\n

Through bodies shaped by nature’s artistry\u2014<\/i><\/p>\n

Each vessel unique, yet each containing me.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

You see the surface tension that divides,<\/i><\/p>\n

The ripples that make patterns strange.<\/i><\/p>\n

But I have been every kind of water<\/i><\/p>\n

That has ever been or will be.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

I have tasted every difference,<\/i><\/p>\n

Moved through every form of life,<\/i><\/p>\n

And let me share this ancient truth:<\/i><\/p>\n

It is the mixing that makes us strong.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

Like tributaries joining the sea,<\/i><\/p>\n

Like rain returning to the source,<\/i><\/p>\n

We are all the same water,<\/i><\/p>\n

Flowing in different streams.<\/i><\/p>\n


<\/i><\/p>\n

Remember me, for I remember all\u2014<\/i><\/p>\n

Every shape that held my essence,<\/i><\/p>\n

Every form that gave me purpose,<\/i><\/p>\n

Every difference that made me whole.<\/i><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Let the voice of water sit with you, if it speaks. Or if it simply flows
\npast, that\u2019s okay too.
<\/span><\/p>\n


\nIt will be here\u2014watching, listening, waiting\u2014long after we\u2019re gone.

\nUntil next time, may your signal find the stones that hold it.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/p>\n

Thank you for listening.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

If this resonated with you,
\nstay. Listen to it again. Share it with a friend. Come back again when you are
\nready.<\/span><\/p>\n

If you’d like to support this work, the best way is through
\nmy books\u2014available wherever you buy yours. They’re how I fund the quiet time it
\ntakes to make something like this. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

My essays and poems you can find
\non my blog at <\/span>lawrencenault.me<\/span><\/a>.
\nJust click on \u2018Journal\u2019.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Transcripts and reflections are
\nlive on my blog.<\/span><\/p>\n

Thank you for listening.<\/span>
<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Welcome back to Stone and Signal.  If you haven’t heard the first episode yet you can find information on Episdoe 1 here.  The Podcast Links Edpisode 2 on YouTube Episode 2 on Spotify The Essay The Transcript     Tales That Touch The Earth Photo by Nitin Arya: https:\/\/www.pexels.com\/photo\/photography-of-book-page-1029141\/ I didn\u2019t plan to write this. Like…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":734,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_kad_post_transparent":"","_kad_post_title":"","_kad_post_layout":"","_kad_post_sidebar_id":"","_kad_post_content_style":"","_kad_post_vertical_padding":"","_kad_post_feature":"","_kad_post_feature_position":"","_kad_post_header":false,"_kad_post_footer":false,"_kad_post_classname":"","slim_seo":{"title":"Stone and Signal - Episode 2: Tales That Touch The Earth - Lawrence Nault","description":"Welcome back to Stone and Signal.  If you haven't heard the first episode yet you can find information on Episdoe 1 here.  The Podcast Links Edpisode"},"footnotes":""},"categories":[218,213,212,216,219,217,214,172,220,215],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-733","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-climate-fiction","category-creative-process","category-ecological-grief","category-environmental-themes","category-hope-through-story","category-narrative-power","category-quiet-resistance","category-storytelling","category-writing-in-a-collapsing-world","category-ya-literature"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/733","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=733"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/733\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":735,"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/733\/revisions\/735"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/734"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=733"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=733"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lawrencenault.me\/journal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=733"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}