Broken Shells

In my summer quest to journal about my treks on trails, today’s story is a bit of a departure.

I’m by the sea at the moment. It is my escape. I’m drawn to it when I’m happy, even more when I’m sad. It restores my soul. Yesterday was not a good day. So today I find myself walking along the sand, with the waves barely licking my toes. While this is not a marked trail through majestic trees or along a mountain pass, it is the path where earth meets sea meets sky.

I came across people looking down, searching for that perfect sea shell, spying one, picking it up, and tossing it down as soon as they see it’s cracked or worn or ugly underneath. And I am suddenly irritated by this. There are millions if not billions of shells. They are tossed and pounded and beaten and seldom survive raging storms unscathed. Then I see them. Three broken shells. 

All three had their best sides showing to the world. But, when you pick them up and look a little closer, you see the broken edges, the scars, the cracks. It’s easy to imagine someone coming along, reaching down to pick up and take that shell, then tossing it aside when seeing the imperfections.

Broken shells are a sign of strength, of perseverance, of survival. They are defiant and tenacious, not giving up, not giving in. They are beaten and tossed by forces much stronger than they. But they are here, still. Broken shells are nature’s reminder to not give up hope.

I picked up all three imperfect, broken shells. I did not toss them back down.