By The Sea

I made my way to the beach today. I set out in search of quiet, peace and beauty, but mostly I just needed a reminder that I am small. That my life and the story I am writing with each day that I live it are important, certainly, but that my worries, my fears, my trials, trivialities and insecurities are all a lot smaller, less significant and all-consuming than they seem. And the ocean? It delivered. It always does.

On my way, I got lost. Not once, not twice, but three times I had to pull over and re-route my GPS. And twice it turned out I hadn't been lost at all, that I would have been just fine if only I'd trusted my instincts. But I didn't. So three times I pulled onto some quiet street or into some empty parking lot and got frustrated. With my phone for not being more clear and then, when I found myself retracing my steps, with myself for not listening to my instincts. I realized though, when I finally arrived at the beach, that it was oddly poetic and symbolic me losing my way and not trusting my instincts. After all, I was on my way to the ocean to find something. And when I did, I realized that there was a lesson to be learned even in the journey. That sometimes, in life, we get lost. For whatever reason, at times, we simply lose our way. And that's okay. We just have to stop and take the time to find it again. That sometimes the routes we expect to get us someplace, don't and instead we find ourselves somewhere unfamiliar. But that doesn't mean we're not still on our way to where we're supposed to be. It simply means we have things to learn along the way. And we can take comfort in knowing that the destination still awaits us just as it did before, but that we will arrive stronger, smarter, better, changed...improved in some way.

When I did finally get to the beach, it's effects were immediate. I was barely a step into the tunnel, had caught just a glimpse of it's waters when the calmness began to wash over me. It was as if a wave had gone the distance, washed up over the rocks ad the sand and finally let itself break over me. It was lovely. I stood there and simply took it all in until I started to freeze. Because it is, after all, April in Connecticut. So I put my hood on ad tied it tight around my neck, took my shoes off and started walking.

Before I knew it, I was searching for sea glass. This didn't come as a surprise. I needed something to do that I didn't have to think about, and it's probably one of my favorite things to do at the beach anyway. However, it also shouldn't have come as a surprise that I didn't find any. The beach, after all, is called Rocky Neck and is home to more rocks than it is beautiful shells and weathered glass. I was, however, a bit surprised to find regular glass. Instead of being disappointed, though, I became excited. Because it's easy to find something beautiful, but to look at something and see that it has the potential to be beautiful, when it's not so clear yet? That's a lot more difficult. And a lot more satisfying. So I made it my mission to find all of the pieces of glass that I could and throw them into the ocean. It was even better than my original plan and offered even more gratification. It also offered up another reminder:

We often mistake things that are broken for things that are ugly, when, in fact, sometimes the broken things are the most beautiful of all. Broken things yield stories and development. Sometimes, all they need is time. Time to heal. Time to change. Time to soar. It's a tough process. But in the end? In the end, that broken thing may just take your breath away. So we must not be so quick to judge, to toss aside. We must, instead, look. Look for the beauty in weathered edges and in scratches and in scars. And if we really, truly, can't find something beautiful in the broken? We must realize that it may just not be ready to soar yet. And then we must help it to do so. We must lend a hand or a shoulder to cry on. We must throw ordinary glass back into the ocean with the faith that, given a little bit more time, it will become something extraordinary. Something broken, yes, but something beautiful.

When I could just barely feel my fingers and was certain my nose and toes were going to fall off, I turned around to head back to my car. And just as I reached for the door, it started to rain. My inclination was to get in my car, turn the heat up and start driving the twisted road that would take me home. And I did. But as I crossed a bridge and the soft sprinkling turned to full-on pouring, I turned around. Because I love me some beach, but I adore me some rain and there was no way I was missing this finale.

So I parked my car again, slipped off my shoes, slipped off my sweatshirt and made my way through that tunnel. And when I got there? I threw my arms up in the air and I twirled around until I was sure I would vomit or fall over or both and then I span some more. I span until I couldn't feel my fingers, toes, nose or any other inch of my body. And then, when the fireworks were over, when the pouring rain settled back to a soft sprinkle and I was convinced the universe had just sent me a gift, I turned around and headed home feeling at peace and contented by quiet and beauty. Feeling lovely and small. And you know what? I didn't get lost on the way there. Not once.

Thank you, ocean. Thank you, rain. Thank you, universe. You all delivered today. Once again.