Two days before nearly a foot of snow fell, I was walking along Lake Michigan on a solitary stretch of beach with my husband, a friend, and her dog. It was a rare warm day for the middle of November, especially since we were on the Michigan side of the lake. Soon I was alone, my meandering curiosity widening the gap between us until the three were mere dots in the distance. I followed the scalloped edges of debris that had formed during high tide.
Most of the items washed up on the sand were remnants: a silken finger of wood, fallen leaves, emptied shells, a blackened acorn. Each told the story of a previous life. The wood, leaves and acorn were formerly part of a living, growing tree. They had traveled from sky to earth, had rolled into the water, and then had been returned, changed. Even the rocks and shells that had begun their lives in the lake had been coughed out, transformed.
I began to contemplate how I am only a remnant of what I used to be. My cells have sloughed off time and time again, and my rough edges have grown smoother over the years. As I navigate the lake of life, I transition between effortlessly floating, sinking to the bottom, and somersaulting through the waves, pounded by the surf. I am becoming someone new, different, and more interesting. I am now worn and polished to the point where glimpses of my inner life can be seen on my surface.
I felt a brief moment of unity with all of creation—comfortable being a remnant.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 