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My husband lies sleeping in the bed beside mine.
We are staying in a rented condo, shared with family
and friends, in the Pacific Beach area of San Diego.
This is our anniversary and we are here on holiday
after a wedding at which he officiated
Though it is only 5 am the beach beckons, so dressing
as quietly as I can, I slip from the house in swimsuit
and sweatpants. Silently closing the door behind
me I enter into the transient stillness of the harbor
at dawn, cloaked in San Diego June-gloom
I am barefoot and choose to walk on the hard packed
sand offered up by the cresting low tide.
“Shells”, I think, souvenirs for us,
for children, and for garden art.
Few others like myself are on the beach. One or
two are playing with dogs in the sand before the
morning beach time curfew for canines begins. Some
are jogging before the heat arrives on the concrete
path designated for bikers, walkers, joggers, and
rollerbladers.
I start out slowly over a stretch of clear smooth
sand, which offers no rewards other than comfortable
walking. As I journey on my way, the drop from soft-sanded
shore to waters edge becomes greater, the broken
and crushed shells more abundant. Walking with alacrity
becomes more difficult as broken shell edges poke
and pinch reminding me that my current chosen path
may prove far more difficult than first perceived,
but Ah Hah Shells!
First found are the small clams, their shells
more dense, more suited to surviving wave crashing
and current tumult. Then onto a path of more densely
crushed shells to discover scallop shells of all
sizes and color. Some are very fragile with edges
so thin I know they will not survive the journey
back to our home in New England. Their sturdier
and boldly striped siblings remain in my hands.
As I journey on, the way becomes more difficult
still and as I pass under a wharf I question going
on. “I have enough”, I think to myself.
“I need travel no further on this crust formed
of crustaceans”, which has now become consistently
painful. Then I spy a white egret walking ever so
gracefully through a quagmire of seaweed in the
ebbing waves. It looks at me apparently non-pulsed
by human observance and continues on its way. Held
entranced, I follow it as it methodically moves
its feet in the gelatinous green mass distributing
the hiding fish so to be more easily observed and
then quickly eaten
Its movements are so graceful, stealthful. Its
attention ever-present to the moment. It glides
though places I would choose not to go unless through
absolute necessity, which is exactly what this bird
must choose to do to feed itself and perhaps its
family. Gossamer feathers rise on its elegant cocked
head as it turns to look again at me as if it were
asking me of choices I have made in the hopes to
insure survival.
I continue to follow this beacon of white against
the gloom of fog and dew, contemplating choices
I have made. Choices of necessity, choices made
out of fear or comfort, out of love and out of my
desire to remain truly me.
Me with my longings, my attributes, my weaker parts
acknowledged, my stronger parts perhaps more polished
and honoured. Continuing on I pass a black plastic
ladle. Probably lost off a boat or left behind by
a child at play in the water. I ponder its incongruity.
“What does a ladle represent?” I ask.
“Giving”, is the word that pops quickly
into my mind.
Giving until there is none left or giving with
the intention of having enough left over to give
again. It all comes down to choice.
Time has passed. My egret has moved to parts beyond
my reach and desire to follow. My stomach grumbles.
There is now a breeze that without benefit of sun
makes it cooler than I like.
So with hands full of shells I start my return.
This time, however, I choose not the crust by the
water’s edge nor the soft upper sand whose
comfort will entrap my movement making progress
more difficult, but the middle, whose sand is packed
so walking is not impeded by pain or plush.
However, this middle sand is the drop off point
for most of the green gelatinous seaweed that when
in the water holds nourishment for the feeding egret.
Now, it works as a reminder that all choices have
multiple sides to them. They, in and of themselves,
are neither good nor bad. It is our perception of
them. What we do with our choices and what we learn
from them. Right now ‘my choice’ has
a pervasive odor resulting in a quicker pace (better
for weight reduction and cardiovascular health I
remind myself) and a sooner than later breakfast.
"Good choice", I think, as I enter the
gate to wash off my shells.
I place the newly washed, wet shells on the white
plastic out door table to dry in the sun light that
is methodically burning its way through the morning
mist.
I turn to face the direction of the East, the
direction of new beginnings, back toward the Harbor
from which I have just returned and whisper a prayer
of thanks and gratitude.
Turning back to the condo, I open the door to
join my friends and family on this new day of endless
choices and the last full day of our vacation. Just
as I do, the sun breaks through.
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