Sharla Dawn Gorder

I’m on a mission, y’all.  I’m in arts and crafts mode.

Spring has come early, it seems, and the Gulf is finally relaxing in its bed.  What a crazy winter it has been—torrential rains, giant swells, punishing winds.   And tornadoes!  It’s hard to believe looking out there this morning, that just days ago EF-2 and 3 tornadoes ravaged our town.  Prayers to all of those affected.  (And help, if you are able; there are many GoFundMe accounts that have been set up to provide assistance to some of the affected families.  Here is one for my brother’s nephew, wife and baby (Rich Adams):   https://www.gofundme.com/zaqy5xdw  They lost all of their material possessions, but were rescued, miraculously, without any major injuries.)

Yes, it’s hard to believe this morning, looking out over the deserted beach to the glistening Gulf beyond, that this place could be anything but postcard pretty—Greetings from Florida, the Land of Sunshine.  Ah yes, there is a warm abundance of sunshine this morning, and now, after all those storms, there is a bounty of seashells as well.

That’s the part I like best.  All of my life I wanted to be the She-sells seashells-by-the-seashore-girl.  Now I am.  Actually though, I’ve never been much good at sales, so I’m more the She-shares-seashells-by-the-seashore-girl.  What I have, I will share with you.  And what I have now are an abundance of broken shells.  They are beautiful.

For the longest time I only picked up the whole ones.  I searched and searched for perfect unchipped seashells after storms.  As a young teenager, I would ride my bike out to Fort Pickens Point from my house in Gulf Breeze, a good 15 miles, to search for shells.  I still remember the first time I found a Scotch Bonnet, my favorite of all beach treasures.  I was combing the beach, sunburned and thirsty and dreading the long ride home when I rounded the Point and stopped to look out over the pass.  I sat down in a little tide pool, and dug my fingers into the sand and scooped up a dripping handful of shards and shells and quartz.  And there it was, small and bleached bright white and perfectly formed—my first Scotch Bonnet.

I must have been 14 or 15 then, and to this day, some 40 years later, I have only found three or four more whole Scotch Bonnets.  Unbroken shells are rare, especially after a season of pounding surf.  Only the Olives seem to consistently wash up on the beach whole, and that’s only because they are so thick, and closed in around themselves—protected.

But I usually leave them be—for the tourists to pick up and take home.  Because now I like the broken ones.  Really.  Not just metaphorically.  Like I said, I’m on a mission, and only broken shells will do.

I’m making a wreath of broken Whelks.  My awesomely creative friend, Alana, made one a couple of years ago and let me borrow it for the holidays, and it brought me such delight that I decided to make one myself.  Only mine will be in the shape of a peace sign.  (And this is where the metaphor takes off.)

Every shell in Alana’s wreath is broken, and that’s what makes it so beautiful.  If they weren’t broken open at the top, I wouldn’t be able to see inside.  The wreath would have less depth and complexity.  And it is the fact that they are ALL broken in some way that makes this work of art so profound to me.

 

We are all broken open in some way.  Every last one of us.  And that is a good thing.  More light and air and truth gets in that way.  When I see a broken shell, I don’t think, “Oh, this is chipped, I need to fix it.”  No, now I look out over the Gulf and think, “Wow, this little treasure has been through a lot to get here.  It’s beautiful.”

You, little treasure, have been through a lot to get here, and you are beautiful.  I know this because I have met you and talked to you and laughed with you and cried.  I am drawn to you, broken ones, because I am broken too and we are in this wreath together.

The places where one shell is broken fits the contours of another shell that is whole on that side but perhaps chipped on the other.  And that space accommodates the next shell in the wreath, and that is how a community is built.  We nestle together in our shared struggles and triumphs and make something lovely of our world.

I may not look chipped and cracked and hollowed out to you at first glance; I clean up pretty good.  But I will tell you this:  It wasn’t until I allowed myself to be broken open, to be honest with myself and entirely vulnerable and truthful with someone I trusted, that my life changed in ways I could never have imagined.  And to my utter surprise, I learned that that person was broken too, and that we had a wreath to make.  Speak up if you are struggling.  There’s a space for you in the circle.

A space for you in the peace sign.  This brokenness, this shared vulnerability is the key to my serenity—my peace of mind.  I’m gathering shells on the beach to make my peace wreath.  It will take hundreds and hundreds, but I’m in no hurry.  There will always be a fresh supply of broken shells on the shore. Of that I’m sure.

This morning I went out with my little shell bag and headed east along the shore-break.  I had walked for less than a minute when I came to the first little patch of crunched up shells.  I crouched down and the first shell I reached for—I am not making this up—was a Scotch Bonnet, broken almost beyond recognition.

It is my favorite.