A phenomenon of practice is that it is more often a broken seashell that is needed in a balance.
I used to wonder how it was that the eroded, and broken shells were preferable to their smooth, perfect looking counterparts.
But now I understand.
These shells have been around longer, rolling around the ocean floor, smashed by waves against the rocks and shoreline. They have also spent the most time submerged in the salt water, flowing with the moon-influenced tides and seasons.
Today as I walked along the beach, I noticed one broken shell after the other.
Perhaps shells are like us in many ways. Those who survive into our later decades are etched by time with wrinkles and other signs of age, yet given the privilege of accumulated knowledge and experience also gathered over many seasons.
Yet aged shells are not all the same, each having their unique beauty and erosion. A missing piece like a lost memory, or damage perhaps created in childhood, or through another lifetime event that could not be healed. Slashes in the outer shell reflective of the scars we carry.
Chips and frays.
Yet beautiful just the same.
So take time to walk the shoreline and marvel at the perfect and imperfect beauty of shells. Feel the sand made up of innumerable shell fragments that support you as you walk. Understand the power of the infinitely small and remember the vital role we play in the grand cycle of life.
In memory of Oma Tess