This New Year’s Eve I’m contemplating what I can leave behind. 
What am I clinging to that no longer serves me? 
What happens if I let go? 
Will I feel adrift? 
Like a piece removed from the whole? 
I have quite a few negative habits that need to be dropped. 
I would benefit greatly by leaving them behind. 
Yet they’ve become so ingrained, it’s hard to imagine life without them. 
Some of these behaviors are like tattered baby blankets that elicit a form of security in my mind. 
Yet, when I let go I may feel as solid as a rock. 
Or as light as a feather. 
I may feel more connected. 
Entwined. 
Less like a misfit 
and more like an oddly shaped piece that makes a puzzle complete.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my most recent daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
I remember the “good old days” when my husband and I could walk along the beach, hand-in-hand, admiring creation.
Inspecting what the great Pacific Ocean had coughed up.
Back when “cough” wasn’t such a bad word.
Was that last week? Or the week before?
Now we are forbidden from revering rainbow-oil seaweed that reveals itself at low tide.
Or amazing anemones that close their pudgy pale pink arms while waiting for waters to rise.
Every park in our county is closed; we must walk only as far as we can from our houses.
And with temporarily compromised feet, that isn’t too far.
So I’ll just have to remember, imagine, and see what I can see right here at home.
No need to weep. The seaweed will wait for me.
Do you ever have the feeling you’re underwater? Tasks are piled upon tasks are piled upon tasks. Everything seems tangled.
You lift yourself halfway out . . .
and just when you think you’re breathing freely again
you find that you’ve sunk beneath the surface.
But look around. You’re in good company. There is a surprising clarity. Colors are enhanced. Sound carries further.
Light ripples and radiates with every subtle current. Perhaps you can follow in the flow.
And end up on shore.
Weeds are considered pests—unwanted plants that grow rampant among tidy gardens and lawns. But who named seaweed? Why are these magnificent wonders labeled as such?
Before me I see growing doilies and purple-pink ruffles worthy of any Victorian loveseat. A coral and burgundy heart blooms on a tubular stem. Would I toss these into the trash heap?
Waves have pushed broken shells, coral weed and barnacle cirri onto shore. A motley crew? No. For together they create a still life—something deliberate and whole.
Is that a puffy bath scrubber I spy? No. Once again it is a spherical bit of seaweed, delicately colored in pale orange and green.
Almost all of us have been given derogatory labels by others during our lives. I know I have. But, like seaweed, we can move beyond these monikers to become the magnificent wonders we are.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
I came across a crab shell resting on a bed of sea moss. A crack ran through it like a lightning bolt, changing the color and pattern of the inner shell. The Light has entered my being in a similar manner, leaving a mark that has changed the pattern of my life.
My arms have grown wide enough to embrace All.
I continued to regard what had been washed up as lovely: a decaying chiton, a tangle of kelp, a copper “bell.” When I tried to dig up the buried bell, it was connected to something much larger—I was only seeing a tiny portion of its surface.
We are all are all connected to one another. Barnacles ride on the back of a crab; stony coral attaches itself to a mussel.
The sea has tossed up a corsage. I will attach it to my wrist and we will dance into the heart of God. Amen.
A walk on Glass Beach in Fort Bragg, California is a magical experience. Everywhere I look, bits of metal, ceramic and, the beach’s namesake, glass, greet me.
Glass Beach is more accurately a string of small beaches. I must climb over rocks to get to them, some of which are not rocks at all, but compacted behemoths of garbage. These are not barefoot beaches.
I also opt for “difficult” and it is a treacherous descent. The colorful debris is mixed in with seaweed, coral and natural rock. But most don’t care about these natural elements, for almost everyone is here to see the transformed trash that had been dumped into the sea long ago. The constant tumbling has made its rough edges smooth and pleasing.
I wonder if all these people, including myself, are subconsciously drawn here because we feel parts of us are “garbage” in need of casting into the ocean. And yet what does the sea tell us as it tosses back everything we’ve thrown in? Every bit of us can be tumbled to perfection—transformed into the most beautiful part of our being. Perhaps this is why so many of us choose the difficult path.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
I rarely walk at sunset. Not because seeing earth’s life-giving orb dip below the horizon isn’t beautiful to behold—but because I can’t find my way back in the dark. However, my husband wanted to explore the mysterious tide pools exposed after the supermoon had pulled the ocean back much further than usual. Low tide was late in the day, when yellow light drips over everything, creating a golden sheen.
My first discovery was a mussel shell encrusted with barnacles—their chain mail necks eerily sprouting bouquets of fingers. A clump of grass inexplicably held firm to a patch of gritty sand and rock, its roots a miracle. A purplish octagon, patterned like a computer chip, rested in a pool of water. Was it a crab hiding its legs? A part of something larger? A piece of white coral drifted in clear water, its segments fitting together like tightly strung beads.
Further along the beach I spotted a gray crab that blended in so well with its surroundings I almost missed it. I pointed to light-colored rocks in the distance popping against the dark brown bluffs. As we got closer, my husband identified them as harbor seals. They raised their heads lazily, looked into our eyes and flopped back down. The light slanted more sharply now, and I knew it was time to head back.
The sun was sinking fast, and I turned to capture a photo of my husband silhouetted against the last light. I knew then that I could find my way back, even without his help, for we all instinctively know our way home.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 