I’ve been drawn to rough-wave beaches since I was a child gathering snails, mussels and seaweed on the Massachusetts coast. Placid beaches have their place—their calm serenity beckons relaxation.
But stony beaches evoke exploration. Who are we?
Every rock is one of a kind. As are we.
I notice dips and divots, as well as overall shape. Noticing isn’t the same as judging.
Some stones are divided by color but remain united as one entity. Differences can draw us together.
Others have intriguing veins and holes where water runs through or collects. Allow the hollows to be filled to overflowing.
Scuttling crabs use rocks as shelters during daring trips to the surf. Dare to venture from what shelters you—be open to possibility.
These stones are in close proximity, but are not touching. Give those you love room to breathe, then they are more likely to remain close.
I am very aware of the variations within each rock. We are composed of many layers—appreciate each one, for together they create unique you.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
If you like these blogs, you’ll most likely enjoy my latest daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you haven’t read Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, another daily devotional, you may like that, as well.
Summer is well underway at the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens. Otherworldly nigella, also known as love-in-a-mist, waves wildly at me with its many appendages. It definitely wants to be noticed. Sometimes I feel like I’m flailing my arms about trying to garner God’s attention—I forget that I always have it.
Other flowers take a different approach: drawing me in with texture or delicate patterning. What natural gifts do I have that draw others towards me?
A Matilija poppy is completely open, revealing its center. How often am I able to fully open myself to Spirit, holding nothing back?
I have to crouch down to see a trio of tiny plants, each with distinctively different leaves. But no matter how different they are, all belong to the plant kingdom. How do I reconcile different aspects of myself that may seem contradictory?
Now I have to stand up and step back to witness waves of color.
Beds are bursting with brightness. Do I hide my true colors or let them shine?
The black blotches on the ladybird poppy are what make it distinctive, even though it can appear to be a flaw. Which of my “flaws” are really strengths?
The time has come to leave the gardens, but I make one last stop at the flowering onion. It is almost ready to shed its paper cap, revealing buds on the verge of blossom. Am I ready to bloom?
I get discouraged, just like anyone. Sometimes I feel all washed up—pale, bedraggled, pushed between a rock and a hard place.
As my body parts hurt and ache, I wonder what it would be like if they simply broke off and drifted away on the tide.
I look down at my feet and see all that has been uprooted and tossed upon the agate-laced shore: delicate ocean plants, a bumpy translucent sea creature, a plume of seaweed growing from its perfectly round root ball.
A kelp bowl holds the detritus of land and sea. Another bulb is whole, but scraped and battered—its fringed appendages imploring the air for some explanation. Part of a spewed up sign contains mysterious letters that cannot be deciphered. What does it all mean?
And then I come upon a little nest the waves have made. Its outer layer is green and threadlike; its inside layer is pink and precious, tender and pliable. I recognize my soft, inner self, always wrapped in God’s embrace, even when I struggle and flail. I use my aching arms to hug myself, thanking God I have them.
My feelings about taxidermy aside, there is definitely something fascinating about walking among once-wild creatures. They are museum displays, not allowed to be touched, but my eyeballs are caressing their patterned fur, gliding up their twisted horns and nuzzling their textured noses. I imagine them snorting hot breath from their n0strils.
Most of these animals were most likely from zoos, and unless I was to work at one, or a similar institution, I would never have the chance of a close encounter. If I did see one of these beasts in the wild, my affectionate feelings towards it would vanish instantly and be replaced by fear or trepidation. I like the idea of intimacy, but not its reality.
This paradox parallels my feelings about God. I want to be so close that we meld together, and in essence, I know this is already true. However, there is a terrifying aspect of being that vulnerable, hollowed out, emptied, to then be filled with something new and inexplicable.
Knowing that I will be consumed causes this hesitancy. And yet, here, among the hollowed out, immortalized beasts I am safe. How much safer am I within the embrace of God?
All photos © Sondra Sula.
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