The Beachcomber

The tip of my forceps moves gently through the small pebbles as I search the remnants of an ancient seashore. I sort the pebbles into different piles and then…there…the small spiral rock. I grasp the tiny fossil in my forceps and looking through my magnifying glass I see that it is the internal mold of a shell, millions of years old…the inner core of the shell.

As I imagine the fossil’s seashore, I recall all the many happy times walking along the shore with my family looking for whatever of interest had washed ashore. The shells from those sun-filled days are now in a jar decorating a shelf in my home. And every time I see the shells I remember the feel of the waves as they crashed uncompromisingly against my legs, the sand slipping away from under my feet as the water returned to the ocean. I remember walking the narrow strip between the infinite ocean and the particularity of the sand…the sound of the waves, the living waves, that rise and fall…the rhythm of their cycles…

And as the spirals of the cycles of my life continue in their rhythm, I wonder if maybe there was something else I have been looking for…perhaps it is the inner core of my life and, perhaps, the need to find again the connection between myself and the infinite.