Ode to Gifts from the Sea

I've been thinking about the last two and half years here in Australia; the trials and tribulations, the highs and triumphs. I knew moving to Oz meant making sacrifices with friends and family to freedom to drive and buying $2 wine. What I didn't know was that the healing process of homesickness, if that's even possible, is not linear. Sure, you get used to it after a certain time, but just when you think you're managing it a wave hits you, retreats, but leaves behind little reminders like seashells on the beach.

So I'm walking along this beach, it reminds me of San Diego. I pick up each shell I come across and brush the sand off to examine it in my hands. This black mussel shell reminds me of the cool summer evenings with a touch of balminess from the ocean and it reminds me of the mussels I used to buy from the fish monger at the Del Mar markets on Saturday mornings; a ritual I used to love. That ritual is now replaced with fresh coffee and garden games at the park's Saturday market. It's a great way to start the day, but it's not quite the same; no worse, no better.

All these shells I treasure and soon I can barely keep them all in my hands as I collect each off my memory lane beach. The last one I pick up is a conch shell, spiral shaped like a snail. I've always been fascinated with this one. It starts off with a generous whirl and swirls into a tiny infinite dot. You can hear echos of the ocean waves when you put it to your ear like haunting laughter of good times past. Yet, you could never see what is at the heart of the spiral. Could it be the heart and soul of happy memories or something dark and secretive? I suppose I could saw it in half to see, but I don't have the means or tools to solve the mystery. So I put this seashell along with the others on a shelf and gaze and wonder about life and loved ones on another shore.