SE U.S. Travel

The beach. It is many things to many people.

Some come to lie on the sands and brown the skin. Others come to frolic in the waves or paint inspired scenes.

Still others barely pick up their heads for they are beachcombers. Diligently traversing past more boisterous beach goers, patiently picking through the remnants of shells left by the surf all in the hope of discovering that perfect shell. To some it is the wide top of a conch that spirals down to a fragile narrowness or a scallop shell with its delicate edges intact and not chipped.

Then there are those who come to the shoreline for solitude. I am one of those.

We bring our problems - some heavy like cancer has struck my family again or others as light as "should I wear the 2" or 4" heels on my date tomorrow night?"

The enormity of the situation does not matter - the ocean accepts them all.

Some write in journals, others send silent prayers into the pounding surf.

Me?

I take a shell and write out my upsets in the sand.

There is no spell check and punctuation is not a prerequisite...I just write.

Sometimes a curious person wanders over while I am bent over and in the midst of sand scripting. But usually people recognize the motion and keep a respectful distance.

Now they might run over and read my sagas when I am done – I have no idea.

For it is my practice that once the epic is completed I toss my shell “pen” over the shoulder and I walk away.

I have left the problem for something far greater than myself to handle.

For the tides will ebb and flow as will my worries.