Strong Like a Shell

I love seashells.

They have a beauty that isn't always diminished by the erosive power of the waves. I love them for all their variety of shape and colour. I love the feel of them, hard and smooth and, sometimes, warm from my hand as I hold one in my pocket; a talisman caressed by my fingers.

There are shells on my windowsill and shells in my thoughts. There is a drawing of a shell on the tabletop in front of me; tiny and detailed. An accurate record of an object that represents a place and a moment and an emotion. Memories pinned down by graphite marks.


Sometimes, no matter how fragile we feel, we have to be strong - or, at least, to give the appearance of strength. To reassure someone else.

Tonight, I want to wrap a shield around myself, hard and resilient to protect me like a shellfish inside its shell.

Content & Discontent

The thoughts came to me so strongly and unexpectedly that I had to stop what I was doing, put the coffee pot on the stove and sit down in front of the fire and run through it all again.

It has been a strange start to the year with far more aches, pains and other irritations that I would normally expect and so I am not really surprised that I have felt more than a little discontented. However, it has only been in the last couple of days that I have asked myself the question so beloved of Russian authors "What is to be done?"

A few moments ago, I happened to look out away from the sea and saw a figure sitting by himself on top of the ridge and - just for a second - clearly recognised myself as a young man sitting atop another such ridge as I pondered a Buddhist text that explained that we suffer because we desire and that we should only rid ourselves of suffering by ridding ourselves of desire.

Many years on, I could apply this to my life today. Do I only suffer discontent because I desire something that I do not - perhaps can never - have? And, if this is the case, might I become more content by recognising and accepting my life as it is with all its limitations?

It is easy to argue that I torture myself by dangling dreams out of my reach; especially since I could choose to walk away from everything that I have but do not to do this, either because of a need for the comforts of my circumstances or, perhaps, simply through sheer cowardice. It is a strong signal that I realise that nothing will change and even that it is too late for me to change. I can either kick against this and suffer, or accept it and then hopefully find a contentment with my life that might occasionally be slightly sweetened by a few recollections.

My coffee is ready and I sit warming my hands around my mug.

I am not sure where these thoughts leave me? Is this now the time that I should approach those doors that have not been closed to me and shut them myself? Even if I did that, would I actually find the contentment that I feel is missing?

I finish my coffee and look out towards the grey, turbulent sea and, with that, the realisation that even a bleak outlook can have its own magnificent energy.

So I cast the thoughts of my younger self into the wind and waves and console myself with Murakami's observation on running:

"Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional"

I must never let myself forget that.

Swimming

The New Year has brought mild weather and I have rediscovered the simple pleasure of swimming. Three times over the last few days I have started my day by swimming. It loosens my limbs and jump starts my day but, best of all, I lose myself within the sensations of the water passing over my skin. My mind slows down, thought slips away and I become acutely aware of my body. I feel the better for it.

If only my evenings were to go as swimmingly. A dull emptiness seems normal these days but, all too often, this deteriorates into regret and even something approaching anger. I need to get a grip, count my blessings and remember the small pleasure of my morning swim.

Christmas

Out of the blue - certainly out of a cold steely blue sky - I have been ill. It came on gradually, over the space of a couple of hours, until I sat shivering and aching and feeling very sorry for myself. I have slept a lot over the last couple of days and am past the worst. I have lost my voice - but who do I talk to anyway? - and it has left me weak and tired but mercifully I have all that I need here for my physical comfort. I shall neither starve nor freeze.

In fact, I have so much fuel that I could spare a forked branch of silver smooth driftwood and set it up in the corner. This morning I have tied strings of shells, pebbles and sea glass and hung then upon my "tree". In front, I have set a large church candle to light my creation as the light fades this afternoon.

I have a bottle here. I have re-corked and sealed it with wax. Inside is a message:

To Whoever finds this,

I hope that this finds you well and happy at
Christmas and that you will have a time of
peace and comfort. May the New Year bring
you only good things and the contentment
that you have been wanting.

With Love from
The Beachcomber

I will now take the bottle to the water's edge and cast it far into the waves.

Tied & Teased

Walking along the beach, feeling and hearing the crunch of shingle beneath my feet and letting my mind wander.

"Tied"

"Teased"

"Wet"

Smiling, walking and happily hard in the frosty sun

Unspeakably Wonderful

The day is unspeakably wonderful: blue skied and intricately white crisped and even the pebbles on the beach are frozen into a wide lacy bedspread.

I am poorly and spend my days by the stove, drinking tea, reading from a musty, broken-spined, leather bound book and, from time to time, taking up my old tin whistle and playing a lament for aching limbs and runny nose.

Even so, I cannot resist the lure of such a perfect morning and so I strip on the doorstep and walk out onto the frozen beach, spreading my arms to greet the brilliant sun for a moment t and then, laughing until I cough, I nip back into the warm room, dress quickly and put the kettle on again.

One of those times

I am having one of those times. It is one of those "What the fuck am I doing with my life?" times when my happiness proves to be bubble thin and simply bursts, leaving me exposed and, when I look inside myself and weigh myself in the balance, I am found wanting. I must not waste what I have.

I think that I am going stir-crazy here. I crunch across the frozen beach to break ice and collect water from the stream and so at least the kettle whistles contentedly on the stove. I try to find warming books to read: summer tales and stories of found happiness and human kindness. I think that I am searching for a happy ending.

It warms me so to see friends starting to find their own happiness but my pleasure is tinged with a little sadness when I start to cast over the days ahead of me and I know that nothing is likely to change.

There is peace to be found in this place. The stove warms me and I have good supplies of comforting wintry food. I can draw closer to the heat, wrap a blanket around me and dream of a life that is not mine.

One thought does emerge from my meditations; I will not waste what I have.

I think that I might surprise people.