A Pocket Full of Shells (247)

 Word choice matters. I know some people who speak very carefully, almost compulsively- you know when you are talking to them, that they mean exactly what they say. They are precise, decisive, and literal. They leave no room for interpretation, because they say exactly what they mean. I find this fascinating and impressive. This takes a certain way of thinking: linear, categorical- something I myself lack. I have so many thoughts, all vying for the same attention, most of the time. I spend so much time, organizing and prioritizing, I could never speak so absolute. 

A pocket full of shells. I heard this phrase yesterday and it got my mind peaked. I knew out of these five, simple words, a blog post would come to fruition. Writing precisely, expressly, authentically, this I can do. That is why I tend to do that over speaking. I tried to podcast for a bit, I found it emotionally draining, I just couldn't get my words to flow into a cohesive package. This is a skill, a talent. Podcasting is words melodic. Words both accurate and succinct with flare and pizzazz. I found out pretty quickly, I am a women of the written composition, not the oral one. I may hone my verbosity in the future but for now, I will focus on writing.

A pocket full of shells. Such a succinctness to it. You can see it, a pair of Bermuda short pockets, wet and packed with scallop, cockle and sundial carapace. Their husks sandy and gritty from their journey. Some broken, fragmented and sharp, others smooth and ridged with swirls of white and pink, a few hints of yellow. As children we walked the beach collecting these former critters, in winter, spring or summer. Cold evening breeze or warm summer sun- the beach was not just a place of sunbathing or taking a gentle stroll, but shell collecting for so many of us. That phrase- it triggered a memory.

It also brought forth the idea of how simple, direct phrases, poetic or literal, can really open up the mind for personal interpretation. A pocket full of shells. To some it may trigger the same memory it did for me. I have jars of shells, bleached and preserved. I haven’t been to the beach in several years, but every time I look at the jars, I can almost hear the sound of the waves, smell the saltiness of the brine and feel the crispness of the mist of the ocean. It’s visceral.

For some the statement, may have brought to mind, clutter or dirty souvenirs. Something that ends up on the floor of the car, mixed in with the grains of sand from flip flops and beach towels. A nuisance. I have to admit sand, to me is a nuisance. I am still finding traces of it in my car several years later and when I empty my beach bags before we venture to the pool. While vacations come and go, sand is permanent. Not only in the fact that it is minerals and rock, broken down over eighty million years, but that it’s persistent. Once you come into contact with it, it literally follows you home. Go sand. But the shells, they are a keepsake. We choose to take them home with us. Shells, like beautiful words, inspiring prose, we seek out and collect.

Sea shells are also the remains of the millions of sea creatures that have inhabited this Earth at some point over our long existence. They are a beautiful reminder of decomposition, recycling, renewal and sustainability. So that simple phrase- A pocket full of shells-  it took me to the science too. Right? I told you my mind is never quiet.  Instinctual triggers, scholastic triggers and sentimental triggers are always bombarding me. It is why I think my words are better suited for pen to paper rather than a microphone.

Word choice matters. Mindfulness matters. Reflection matters. So when we are traversing the fluidity of our sandy, rocky shores of life, when our footprints are washed away by the consistency of the ocean, our essence remains. That the carapaces of our words, scattered upon the beach of social media, are positive and enduring. We must choose our words with mindfulness, so as they are gathered, collected and put in clear, glass jars- they trigger a memory of inclusiveness, positivity and joy. 

This is the gift of words, but also their curse. Word choice matters. The choice to be the smooth, white, soft sands- with collaborative support, compassion and innovation or the choice to be the rocky, gritty, sharp sands, piercing and destructive. Both lie beneath the feet of so many. Both we as a society must walk across to reach the stirring, nurturing, often trenchant waters of connection. Both are a choice. We can keep our shoes on and avoid the scars, or choose to build a boardwalk. Either way, we can still see the shells, sand and opportunity.

I prefer to walk upon the sand, where I can remove my shoes and feel the comfort of the grains between my toes, feel its strength and endurance. I prefer to gather the sea shells from those types of beaches. Don’t you? Sometimes, I end up with bloody soles. But I will always choose the path of growth. No matter the discomfort. Collaboration and community is important. Personal joy is important. Do what you love. If you don't love it, let it go. Find your niche. 

Word choice matters. Experience matters. 

The shells that fill our pockets, they matter to us alone. The sand that comes along with them, they are part of the journey.