Skip to main content

Pearly Shells and the dishes.





Pearly Shells, from the ocean
Shining in the sun
Covering up the shore
When I see them
My heart tells me that I love you,
More than all the little pearly shells.

We used to sing this as kids. While doing the dishes. A Hank Snow song sung over and over, passed down through the family. My grandmother would have sung with my mother and her sisters, sometime in the 50’S and I guess they just kept singing it.

We sang it, while doing the dishes. Three girls singing, usually in harmony – without even knowing what harmony was. This stopped the arguing, the throwing of plates, flicking of suds, pulling of hair and other shenanigans.

I’ve never sung it with my son or stepsons. They – glued to the electronic devices of their era  - do not know about the pearly shells. The dishwasher replaced tantrums of who’s turn it was and the half-arsed wipe down of the kitchen bench was always done with one hand and both eyes distracted by said chosen device.

I think of my sister’s kids and my step-children’s kids and wonder if they ever sung Pearly Shells. Probably not. I think it finished with us three girls, my sisters and I.

Pearly shells have taken on a new meaning for me today.

I walk the beach often. A lot. Always. This is when I tune in to that universal force, sometimes called God, Buddha, The Divine and so many other monikers. The beach is where I feel small and expansive all at once.


Today I was reminded as I walked that I know nothing at all. I do not know what lies ahead for me or anyone else for that matter. I cannot control or manipulate my life or anyone else’s. I cannot even ask for what I want, purely because I do not know what is around the corner, what is possible, or what is coming. All I can know for sure is that I will be part of it, come what may.

So, instead of asking, or praying for, affirming or visualising, today I gave. I gave everything I had. Handed it over. What do I know anyway?

As I walked on and swam and rested in the salty perfection and beauty of the beach, I saw my path. It has no beginning and no end.  It is secret until it is not, it is paved for me by a power greater than my human knowing. All I need do is relax and take comfort that the right thing will happen at the right time. All I need do, is follow those little pearly shells…

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Broken free

I made an angel. Created her out of clay. Painstakingly I sculpted and moulded her. I loved her. I loved her heavy wings, they way they sheltered her and protected her heart. I loved that tiny heart, the way she looked down on to it "I will always look after you" she whispered, "you are safe".  Until the day she broke.   My son rang me on my way home. His voice was shaky, apprehensive. "Something terrible has happened" he mumbled. Moving straight into mother mode, I panicked. "What is it?? Are you ok??" "I broke her...I didn't mean to... she fell...I tried to catch her...I wasn't quick enough"  Oh My god... who?, where? What the?????? "Your angel mum... she smashed!!" The poor boy. He knew I loved her, created her, protected her. But the sense of relief was instant. Just a sculpture, not a life, a girl or an animal. Just a sculpture. It wasn't long however that the realisation of what had just
8 comments
Read more

Spiral Bound

I have a collection of journals. Writing Journals. I do not collect journals; however, journals seem to collect me. It’s true I do write and yes, in journals, however on closer inspection, I own a great many empty journals. Too many. The empty journals are not lying in wait, I did not purchase them knowing that in due course, I would fill their pages with beautiful prose, witty satirical observations, or heartfelt outpourings of emotion. In fact, I did not purchase them at all. The empty journals were gifts. Gifts for a writer. Carefully selected, each one. Some leather, silk and fabric bound. Some hand made with flower pressed paper pages. Recycled, reclaimed, re-purposed. From distant shores, India, England, Thailand. Leaves of possibility, tactile and tempting. I have journals with pages illustrated with moons and mermaids, clouds and clowns, pages tied with ribbons and some with jute. All empty, too beautiful to touch, to fill. When I open their pages…words fail me
8 comments
Read more

North

How is it, that strolling along on our perfect peaceful path, is so much harder than trekking backwards, uphill, blindfolded and in the rain, on some random track to nowhere?? How is it, that we know exactly what to do...but do the opposite? Why do we choose to struggle, push, and deny ourselves the simple truth of who we are? When did we decide that who we really are is not enough, not valuable and is worthless.? Worth less. When I am travelling in the right direction - my direction, I am so happy! When I am happy, I am so giving, so creative, so loving. Anything and everything is possible. Everyone I meet is an opportunity for me to share my joy, my knowledge, my heart. So why is it so hard to stay there. Why do I wander into fear, distrust and such smallness. How come I can bear down, push hard, toughen up and clench my way through self destructive jobs, self created poverty and self abusive inner talk and turn away from my light, love and freedom? Shouldn't play
4 comments
Read more