A Wistful, Wondrous Walk

It must’ve been a big night at the beach for the gulls, for those around me are sleeping it off. Soft feather rounds of white and cloud-gray, they curl their necks gracefully to tuck beaks beneath wings. Gentle ripples of lace-edged blue water brush the sand while flashes of sunshine dance on the Sound’s dips and peaks. 

Over recent months, it’s been hard to quell heartache as the war in Ukraine grinds on, Tyre’s family mourns, and earthquakes devastate cities and families. But as I stroll the beach, the soft rumble of a song vibrates in my throat with no conscious direction on my part. I assume it’s a good sign to be moved to music, an indication that the drone of must-do’s and bad-news has quieted for this respite. 

 

So, what has my heart punched in on my inner juke box? I don’t immediately know, have to let that rumble play on a bit while I process the rhythm.  John Lennon. Recognition of the artist comes first, then the melody: “Love, love, love….” Pleased by my selection and the frame of mind reflected, I meander, admiring the scatter of shells and wedge-shaped prints of my seagull companions. 

 

Milky jingle shells of peach, lemon, and cream, fragile in their flavorful colors, mingle with eggplant-purple mussels and brown and white slipper snails. I cup my hand and start a collection. 

 

A flash of green catches my eye: beach glass, rare in this age of recycling. As a child during summers in Rhode Island, hours with my sisters and friends passed unnoticed as we scoured the shore for remnants of soft drink bottles and those of our fathers’ favorite beers. We’d call out the colors as we found them, “White! Brown! Aqua,” all those bottles of Schlitz, Miller, and Coke broken, tumbled, and rounded by rolling waves and shifting sand. Occasionally we’d happen upon gems of red, blue, or violet from Milk of Magnesia and old apothecary jars. 

 

Laddered white lifeguard stands face the water seeming still to keep watch. A clutch of gulls, adolescents I think, gaze toward the horizon, contemplative as any beachgoer. With a keen sense of flow and design, Nature has painted their speckled feathers the same pattern and hues as the slipper snails. As I bend to pick up a snow-white clam shell, Lennon’s hopeful song of human harmony spools through my mind, and I step, splash, reach for a shell, step, splash, hum. “Love, love, love…” 

 

Suddenly I stop, suffused with wonder. Someone – a child pausing from turning cartwheels? A smitten teen? An adult like me, moved by an inner song? – has spelled a word with shells in the sand: LOVE. Yes! Love! I can almost hear the heavenly horn section blaring a brassy accompaniment as the Universe smiles, and uplifted, I walk on.    

   

All by Design

Must have been a big night at the beach for the gulls, for those around me are sleeping it off. Soft feather rounds of white and cloud-gray, gracefully they curl their necks to tuck beaks beneath wings. Gentle ripples of lace-edged blue water brush the sand while further out, glints of sunshine dance on the Sound’s dips and peaks.

Over the past few days, I have found myself humming as I sponge counters, fold laundry, drive, or walk in the woods. Today as I stroll the beach, the soft rumble of a song vibrates in my throat, with no conscious direction on my part. I assume it’s a good sign to be moved to music, an indication that the drone of must-dos has been superseded by quiet joy. So what has my heart punched in on my inner juke box? I don’t immediately know, have to let the rumble play on a bit while I process the rhythm. John Lennon. Recognition of the artist comes first, then the tune, “Love, love, love…” Pleased by my selection and the frame of mind reflected, I continue on, noting the scatter of shells at the water’s-edge and the wedge-shaped prints of my seagull companions.

Milky jingle shells of peach, lemon, and cream, fragile in their flavorful colors, mingle with eggplant-purple mussels and brown and white speckled rock-a-bye baby shells. I cup one hand to hold the start of a collection.

A flash of green stops me: beach glass, rare in this age of recycling. As a child, during summers in Weekapaug, hours passed with sisters and friends scouring the sands for remnants of soft drink bottles and those of our fathers’ favorite beers. We’d call out the colors as we found them, “White!” “Brown!” “Aqua!” All of those bottles of Schlitz, Miller and Coke, broken, tumbled, and rounded by rolling waves and sand. Occasionally, we’d happen upon gems of red, blue or purple from Milk of Magnesia and old apothecary jars.

Laddered white lifeguard stands facing the sea seem still to keep watch despite empty seats. Ferries to and from Bridgeport and Port Jeff cut through the water. A clutch of gulls, adolescents, I think, gaze toward the horizon, contemplative as any beach-goer. In their brown and white speckled feathers, Nature, with her keen sense of flow and design, has painted them the same pattern as the rock-a-bye babies.

The sun shimmers silken strands of light as I bend, still humming my song of human harmony, to pick up a snow-white clamshell. Step, step, splash, step, reach for a shell, step, splash, hum. “Love, love, love…” And suddenly, I am suffused with wonder, for someone before me – a child pausing from turning cartwheels? A smitten teen? An adult, like me, moved by an inner song? - has spelled a word with shells in the sand: “LOVE.” Yes, love! I can almost hear the heavenly horn section blaring its brassy accompaniment as the Universe smiles, and beaming, I walk on.

Searching for Sand Dollars

I stride the beach, pausing every so often to bend and pick up a shell. Curling and whispering on the sand about my feet, slow swells of green water roll, a rhythmic pulse.

A gathering of gulls shriek and complain, no doubt wishing for an ocean stir to rough things up and slap a few fish onshore for supper.

In pink sundresses and floppy hats, two little girls crouch on their haunches, tiny fingers reaching for black ridged scallops and yellow jingle shells. An Amish woman, her hair covered in a white gauze cap, gathers the long skirts of her modest rose dress. She stops, leans closer for a better look, and selects a brown-striped turkey-wing.

Whether a leathery gent with an imposing paunch, a lithe blond in a turquoise bikini, or a well-browned matron, gold bracelets jangling, we walk the shore, hands cupped around shells, entranced by the variety of nature’s designs. We pluck them up, spiraled and curved, pottery-thick, ice-brittle, in shades from gray to vivid orange with squiggles.

Sand dollars are best. Bleached clay-white, etched with a star, they are fragile, so easily broken. It is rare to find one intact on the beach. And so, we hunters head for the water. Wading thigh-deep, the beer-bellied, bikini-clad, and sun-hatted hunch, peering through rippling water.

As I toe the sand, sifting, sending out smoky plumes, braids of gold sunlight waver. A school of silver fish flash around my feet. And I notice the absence of thought. Searching for sand dollars seems purpose enough to clear my head of its usual spin.

Squinting, I scan for the elusive disks. There? No, it’s a shell. There? No, it’s another shell. So it goes. Purpose enough.

I slosh back to the beach empty-handed, but grateful for the warm sun and wide blue sky feathered with light-hearted streaks of jet trails.

A tall man, tan, perhaps European, with dark hair and white teeth strides purposefully toward me. He holds out his hand and says, “For you. A gift. I found it in the sea.”

A sand dollar.

I beam my thanks. He smiles and walks away.

Sand dollars. A kind gesture. Purpose enough.