The
fragments were always there at the intersection of turbulent churning and terra
firma. Either I had not known they were there, or I was too distracted to see
them over the years.
My
happy friend showed me how to spot them. Rhonda is fun and observant; I was
eager to find what she had already discovered. There’s one! A little larger
than a dried pea but a special find none-the-less. There’s another! A blue one.
And another, this one translucent white. We kept moving forward, intentionally
searching along the way. A brown one…another brown one. Aahh, a creamy green
one.
As
waves retreated back into the ocean, we found remnants from discarded bottles
broken into little pieces at water’s edge. I tentatively reached for them in the same way I retracted
from painfully, sharp fragments from abandonment, from abortion, from judging
at a distance, from missed opportunities of loving with abandon, from storms in
life. Broken fragments can hurt. However these battered, glass fragments had now become
sought-after treasures.
This
intersection of tumbling waves and grinding sand is where cutting glass has lost
its painful edges. No longer sharp and threatening, each broken bit of glass had
been abraded and honed over time. I rolled the worn fragment between my
fingertips. Small, smoothed treasures from hurtful brokenness…I searched for
more reminders of transformation.
I
don’t do collections. Well, I do have several shells but most of them came from
a deceased uncle. I retrieved his shells from the trash after the purging of
his house. But beach glass…collecting tidbits of redeemed time was compelling.
Before long, each one of us had collected a palm-full of time and tide-honed
fragments of beach glass.
Each ‘stone’ has an irregular shape, some lackluster,
and many so small they could be insignificant. Only a few were rejected...the
unfinished ones. One piece, in particular, was identifiable as part of a bottle neck, still with sharp, cutting
edges that could draw blood and damage. I hesitated holding onto it before
finding a trash bin. Instead I heaved it out into the depths of the sea. Over
time the movement of the ocean’s dynamic forces would toss it ashore again. And
together, the water and sand would refine this bottle neck into a new, redeemed
form. Beach glass…exposed, valued, worth-keeping and treasured. My just-enough collection
is contained in a small decorative bowl in my kitchen where I notice the worn
bits many times a day.
On my last birthday, I walked the beach alone listening
to the final chapters of The Help downloaded
onto my iPhone. My new friends, Eugenia, Aibeleen, Minny and Celia walked with
me sharing their stories through my earbuds. Those women have been broken
too…like beach glass, like me. Change has no color consideration and is
basically the same: rejection, storm surges, brokenness, grinding, weathering,
honing, transformation, humbling, change, rediscovery. Their story ended as I
finished the audio book. My heart was so full it spilled over onto my wet
cheeks. But my steps kept going, as did my thoughts.
I imagine Aibeleen and friends chattering in the
distance, across the horizon near the sunset. All I can make out is Aibe’s voice: “You
is kind. You is smart. You is important.” Her words stick to my skin like
grains of beach sand. I don’t want to brush them off.
As I walked towards the sunset, the sun’s lowered
rays reflect back something at water’s edge. For me, the birthday girl? I wait for the
next ripple of wave to pass and watch for the shaft’s reflection. And then I
saw what it was…a pink one! I didn’t even know that pink beach glass existed,
and for that matter, that I would be the one to find such a rare gift. It
was almost as if my journey had lead me directly to it. I stooped low to
receive my perfected piece of pink.
That day I discovered a personal treasure….unique,
fearfully and wonderfully made, and intrinsically valued. I was so excited to
share my find, I returned home to patient husband with a pink blessing in my
palm and in my soul. And, I continue to notice grains of beach sand in my car, in
my shoes, at the bottom of my purse, in my pockets, and in my bowl where my collection
of beach glass resides.
