Grace and I collected shells a couple of weeks ago at the beach. We are thinking of making a wreath of them (though that may well exceed my limited crafting abilities). We found several of these shimmery ones, and I sat and turned this one over in my hands, marveling at the subtle ways it gleamed in the light, at its edges, rounded, softened, worn from their time in the ocean’s whitewater, at the fact that this is the inside of the shell (which reminds me of the hidden geode glittering). I’ve always loved shells, and for some reason the humble beauty of this one struck me.
This shell, and some of the others jumbled in our pail, reminded me of one of my favorite books Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea. Lindbergh’s book contains beautiful meditations on shells and tides, on what it means to be alive in this world, on womanhood and identity. I haven’t read it in years and I think it’s time to revisit it.