April 7

While the rest of the group went to the pool this afternoon, I headed across the golf course and crossed the road to visit the harbor, a rather small, sandy inlet by the ocean. Clouds from the morning rain that produced the first rainbows of our trip this morning lingered in the sky and occasionally emitted faint sprinkles, and the threat of showers was apparently enough to keep most folks inside, so I was there by myself for most of my stop-in.

My eyes were drawn to the rows of dark rock and sediment in the sand, so I did as I often do when I'm by the ocean and stooped down to look for shells. I found a few little treasures, including a small but still whole striped one and a larger --but whole-- one that had clearly seen better days. And of course, I also found scores of broken pieces in a variety of colors and shapes.

As I sifted through the broken parts, I occasionally came across one that I just knew had been beautiful in its prime. After a few such finds, I stopped and mused --aloud-- "they're broken but they're still so beautiful."

And of course, the full weight of my words rung in my ears, so I said it again. (Had anyone been there to see me they'd have probably thought I'd fallen from my rocker.) It's true: like the seashells, we're broken. But also like the seashells, we're still beautiful despite our cracks and bruises and scrapes, and despite our "missing" pieces, whether they're literal missing limbs or figurative ones, like loved ones who have moved on and left "holes" in our lives.

I'm sure that at some point over the last few years, I've made the same observation, but it bears repetition. So there you go.