For Thor - 56 - Broken Shell

When I walk along the beach with the surf rolling up to kiss my ankles, I look for shells tumbling across the sand. I always like the whole shells, the ones that have all their little fins and whorls, that are perfect and clean. This year I've been to the shore a couple of times and found beautiful shells on both trips. The ocean offered them like little gems tossed onto the path before me. I pick them up and marvel at the intricate symmetry and delicate coloring of each one. It belonged to a living sea creature not too long ago, this piece of hardened silica and minerals are all that remain to tell the tale of their watery life in the deep. I can never collect too many shells, but I am pickier now about which ones I'll tote home wrapped in paper towels and stowed in my suitcase.

This last week we were on the Outer Banks, one of your favorite places, Thor. We celebrated July 4th with friends, and the ocean waves broke on the crystal coast under a bright blue sky. Families frolicked in the water and played games. Sometimes it's hard to see other families with their kids, all intact and…whole.

The beaches teemed with beautiful youth; they paraded past my umbrella-cast shade, cocky and loudly laughing oblivious to the fact that life is fleeting. They are so like you, not realizing it can be cut short in a flash. One crashing of the wave the shell breaks dashed against the rocks of fate and life ends. We know this is true don't we, Bubby?

The beach offers me a perfect place to feel the depth of grief I know over your death. Gosh, every time I write that I think it's going to be more real to me, but it's not. The grief is deep, the sorrow has substance, even. But my mind still has not accepted you are gone from our lives. Your dad and I took a long walk hand-in-hand along the shore one night and I remembered how utterly happy we were when we first met and got married. The elation we felt when we learned we were going to have you marked one of the best times in our twenty-two years together. And when you came into this world our hearts sang with such love and joy. We felt the enormous blessing of you coming to be with us, sweet boy. We felt so happy, blessed and…whole.

We are broken shells now, tossed on a beach and tumbled in the waves of grief and sorrow. Exposed and utterly at the mercy of the love that binds us, we are vulnerable and open. My points and whorls have been knocked off; I am smoothed and shaped by the tides of grief and the rivers of tears that carve my heart. One day earlier this year in Florida, I went for a walk. I rolled my pants up to my knees so I could feel Mother Ocean kiss my skin, and so I could let my tears fall freely into her waters. I asked her to show me a way forward on the terrible path of a mother who has lost a beloved son. I walked on, waiting, open and listening deep inside for that intuitive cue to guide me.

One by one I came across what looked like large whelks poking out of the wet sand and when I picked them up, they were broken. I would usually put these shells back, but something told me to keep them. Then I found shark-eye and moonstone snails, and giant cockles that looked whole, but were broken. I had a handful of these broken offerings when I stopped walking and sat for a while to contemplate what The Mother wished to reveal to me.

Are we not all like these broken shells? We work hard to appear whole, but we all have cracks and chips where we've pushed beyond the boundaries of our small selves. The Ocean offered me broken shells to remind me that even if something isn't whole, it is still beautiful. It has a story and maybe even has more to teach us than the tale of one that never experienced rough seas and high tides. I meditated on this for a while, sitting near the surf and watching the endless waves rise and fall. After some time I strolled into the water and thanked the Universe for granting me all my many blessings, even if they are broken, chipped or cracked in places. I gently laid the broken shells back on the shore, the message received. I turned my feet back to the house to see your dad and brothers. I carried peace in my heart, and a gentle smile lifted the corners of my lips. I felt a thump on my foot and looked down. There was a small but perfectly intact knobbed whelk, worn smooth in the surf. It was whole and beautiful. It rested my pocket and and I ran my thumb over the contours of its shape as I said my mantra.

I carried this lesson and the contentment it brought me with me these past few months. It helped me when I felt low and reminded me to be grateful, even when it's not perfect. I've learned a few things and realized that I don't know much at all, too.

So, when I went to see The Mother Ocean for the first time this past week, I couldn't wait to tell her Our Family Blessing. I strode into the water and let the waves roll up to my knees. I raised my arms to the sky and said The Blessing as tears fell into the water. I asked The Mother to share some piece of wisdom with me and that I would stand right there in THAT SPOT until I heard her. The very next wave rolled up, and I felt a thump against my foot. I looked down to see a beautiful, whole, intact channel whelk sitting on my foot (very rare where we were). I picked it up and smiled with my whole heart. It was like a rainbow promise telling me one day I would be whole, again. Maybe not the way I thought I would be, and maybe better than I ever thought I could be. It will not be easy, in fact, it hurts a lot. But feeling bereft and sorrowful is not going to last forever. I am a broken vessel now and slowly, I rebuild and form into something new, different, bright and...whole.

I love you,
Mom