Every stone a story.
This is my rosary: I carry it with me everywhere I go. It has the conventional design of five decades, but it's made of knotted string.
I don't know whether I'm doing it right, but whenever I pray the rosary I feel myself in Mary's shoes. In the joyful mysteries, I hear the sound of feathered wings at the Annunciation; I feel her joy in seeing and hugging Elizabeth; I imagine her alarm and the pains of childbirth; her happiness at the naming of her son; her worry twelve years later at finding him missing, and her relief in finding him and her wonder at finding where he was.
The other night I dreamed that I asked Kirsten if I was praying the rosary correctly, and she pointed out a couple of mistakes. In the dream, Mary appeared to us and said, "She's right, you know."