Open and Receptive
Sunday was my first visit to the beach this season. I had sun screened up before I left the house so I was ready to jump into my favorite summer pastime as soon as I arrived. I treasure the simple pleasure of spending time at the beach. I attribute it to a couple things. For starters, I’m a Pisces, a water sign. Duh. Plus, I grew up on Long Island. Each summer throughout my childhood we spent time swimming in the Long Island Sound and Smith’s Point Beach on Fire Island. This Sunday I alternately spent time soaking up the sun’s rays engrossed in a book and cooling off in the water while resolutely scanning the seashore for shells in Galveston.
Each time I visit the beach I like to take home a few souvenirs, something to commemorate the excursion. This typically comes in the form of collecting seashells that strike my fancy. By and large I select shells that are wholly intact. I’m not in the habit of bringing home shards of seashells. Why would I? They’re imperfect.
But, on this visit I was immediately struck by the kaleidoscope of charcoal and titian hued shells along the shoreline. I was so very taken with the way the contrast of the colors enlivened one another. I found myself disregarding exoskeletal integrity as I reached for seashell fragments. The intensity of their colors initially drew me in, but as I looked further I noticed more of their glory. Their contours, seemingly similar but so very unique upon examination. The distinct patterns created by their striations. I was able to see all their beauty despite their brokenness.
This discovery ignited my active imagination. How many lively compositions can I create when arranging this seashell collection when I get home? So many things to consider. Oh, now I can see it in my mind’s eye, it would be especially dramatic apposed against a black background. My bedroom dresser is black. I’ll improvise and transform it into my canvas to play with different arrangements. Its not just how the seashells are placed that’s important, it’s also the negative space left between them. My creative cup now runneth over.
How had I routinely overlooked the viability of shell remnants by discarding them before they were even gathered? I was habitually short-sighted. Not this time. As my eyes, now lucid, searched for shells the words open and receptive began to echo. I’d been channeling that phrase the past couple of years in my personal life and now I was applying it to the shells I encountered.
Previously, in an effort to be responsible and reasonable, I limited myself. How, you ask? Oh so readily, oh so dismissively, and oh so easily. Oh no, I can’t do that. Oh no, I can’t try that. I have to do this, this other thing. Whatever the hell it is, I’m sure it needs my attention so much more than this new experience. I’m a mother, I have children I’m responsible for, I have to care for them. See how easy this narrative becomes? How easy it is to do that? That’s the opposite of open and receptive, that’s closed and protective.
I’ve only grown since I’ve disciplined myself out from this self-imposed comfort zone. I may not have batted 1,000 since then but what’s that other analogy? I know, you miss all the shots you don’t take. Occasionally, even poor decisions can be a brave choice. I’ve tasted more joy since I’ve undertaken this journey. Yesterday the seashells reminded me that magnificence isn’t limited to wholeness. Even in damage there lives an allure and artistry. We do not have to be a reduction of our life encounters but can be emboldened by them. Made better and even more beautiful than before.
Who doesn’t want to enrich their life? The risk can be worth the reward, but too often we are too much in our own head to take that chance. What have we got to lose? At the very least I came home with some beautiful pieces of seashells. I now know I don’t want to miss a thing.