Being Part of the Whole

There are as many mysteries in life as there are in the sea. What do I do when I feel parts of me have been torn away?
A mussel lying on the pebbly beach had a whole new world growing upon its back. Although I want to change, what if this new growth threatens to overtake me and I forget who I was?
I looked up to see a plant emerging from the rock above me. It was sending its energy in three directions at once. How do I decide which way to go when I am being pulled equally in multiple directions?
As I bent close to the “sand” two bits of seaweed caught my eye. They seemed strong and resilient to the touch, but they were both hollow. I knew when they dried out, they would be brittle and easily breakable. How do I hold on to resilience as I age, as I come to grips with this new reality?
When I stood up I saw a larger picture — so many different pieces created just a tiny patch of beach. And there are umpteen beaches ringing this one ocean. And there are many oceans. Every torn piece is still part of the whole.
I climbed back up the cliff, a smile forming slowly on my lips. A carved whale echoed my sentiments as it looked out to sea. There’s a whole world out there, and I am part of it.

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.

Abalone Afterlife

One may argue that the abalone has no life after death, but I would beg to differ. Once the fleshy mollusk is gone, the shell remains and can form a makeshift community—like this close knit “nest of eggs.”

Is the whole a sum of its parts, or do the parts create a whole new whole?

Is this stone being embraced by the whole? What is the difference between being embraced, being held and being trapped? How does God’s embrace feel to you? Today, for me, it felt like soft octopus arms sans tentacles.

New growth begins inside the old when space is created.

Are the pebbles stuck, or did they decide to join the community?

Each abalone leaves behind its own signature, much like our fingerprints identify us. What will be your legacy? What will be mine?

The mother-of-pearl patterns on the abalone’s shell are reminiscent of a river with its ebb and flow, its eddies and currents. If we follow the river, will we one day meet the great ocean and merge into oneness? I hope so.

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.

Rock Beach

I tiptoed over the precarious rocks, some of which slid under my feet. I was being called siren-like to an orange dot in the distance, which proved to be a sponge. As I traversed the uneven terrain, I considered the story of Persephone ending up in Hades due to her attraction to a beautiful narcissus. But when I got closer to the sponge, I saw a small rock embraced and sheltered by a much larger rock and was instead reminded of God’s love.

Bits of abalone shell tucked into the stones looked like precious jewels. That’s how we appear to God, I thought.

A ginger-like seaweed resembled a rough hand sans finger. I thought of all those who have lost parts of their bodies through genetic anomalies, surgeries, accidents, war. God still sees everyone as whole.

A kelp bulb hung over a rock, its round purple-pink roots graduating to flat gold-olive streamers that twisted into a fat braid. No matter what our surface color is, we are intertwined and come from the same root.

A jellyfish washed up on the beach reminded me how transparent we really are: God can see right through our makeshift walls.

Another kelp lay on a bed of sand. It was dressed in bright fuchsia complemented by a burst of green ribbon. Yet it still couldn’t shake its dark shadow. We all must face our own shadows because they accompany us into The Light. Observe, befriend and accept your shadow without judgment and you will understand Mercy.

Finally, a lone stone nestled into the curve of a boulder’s shoulder. I remembered the many times I had rested in God the way a child rests upon a parent’s chest or a lover rests upon their beloved. Whenever we are weary we are invited to rest within the love of God.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

My most recent daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula, is fresh off the press. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.

Weeds of the Sea

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.

Found Whole

“Searching for Statuary” by Sondra Sula

I looked over my my shoulder at a photo my husband had snapped that morning somewhere on the grounds of the Center for Prayer where our silent retreat was taking place. I didn’t know where he had taken the picture, and I couldn’t ask him because we were committed to silence all weekend. But I was determined to find the broken statue of Saint Francis with his head placed gently at his feet. The image was compelling in a way I couldn’t explain and I had to see it for myself.

“Old Rugged Cross” by Sondra Sula

Donning a jacket, I left our dormitory with camera phone in hand and a bottle of water—just in case the quest took a bit longer than expected. I soon realized there was a lot of statuary on the campus as I met up with a startled, spray painted Mary almost immediately. Her pupil-less eyes, pale pink lips, and prim veil were dotted with small bugs gathered within her graces. A small mauve buck, covered in ivory and lime lichen, proudly stood among the trees on his rectangular cement stand. A modern, expressionistic Jesus with a mottled patina looked imploringly at me, head intact.

I came to a small wooden cross, its white paint peeling to reveal the wood grain underneath. I hiked through forest trails, undulating fields of grass, and then crossed a bridge from the sacred grounds to a public river path.

After an hour I was spit out into a subdivision. I was lost. Houses in subdivisions often look the same to me, and in my experience, the roads wind about every which way, confusing everyone except the residents who have memorized their way to and from home. As I was pondering which way to go, I saw a map on a stand. The map showed each plot of land assigned to a number—probably for construction workers, as there were still many empty lots—and also the street names. But try as I might, I could not figure out where I was on the map, or in which direction the map was pointing.

I suddenly looked up and saw the water tower on the Center for Prayer’s grounds. Even if I couldn’t figure out the map, I could use common sense and intuition to get back. As I wound my way through the maze of houses and finally touched campus ground once more, I encountered a paper wasp’s nest hanging like a lantern under a bright yellow maple leaf canopy, as if welcoming me home.

“The Walk” by Sondra Sula

I saw a statue of Saint Francis, barefoot, with two saplings growing next to his toes. His head and neck were squarely on his shoulders. I bet the headless statue is right in front of the dormitory, where I started, I thought as my two-hour odyssey came to a close. But it wasn’t. I trudged up the stairs to our room, taking note of a sculpted sacred heart along the way. Where was the broken Saint Francis statue?

After dinner I took a short stroll. There he was. But his head wasn’t missing at all. It had been reattached prior to my walk. I was looking for something broken when what I was seeking was already whole. Perhaps I need to reexamine what I believe is broken in my life, for it may already be mended.

“Ways of Being” by Sondra Sula