You need places where you can think. And when I say think, I don't always mean reasoning things out; I often mean a more desultory form of thinking. Like reflection, when you gaze inwardly and play with ideas, or take memories out to look at them, or ask ourselves how we are feeling. I was once playfully critiqued by an avid sermon listener for my (too) frequent use of the word 'reflect'. John thought a phrase like 'think about' was fine, whereas 'reflect' suggested something more abstract, maybe even verging on the pretentious. I could see what he meant, and I cut it back a bit and found other ways of inviting people to engage, ponder,and yes, think about. But I still like the notion of reflecting, both looking for illumination and gazing inwardly at the thoughts that might shed light.
So, you need places where you can think in that reflective, ruminative way that is open ended but nevertheless wants to explore possibilities, analyse how and why we feel what we do, or take time to listen to our heart. A walk alongside the waves on a beach is a necessary and recurring joy for me. A walk by the sea places me alongside rhythmic movement that, like a metronome, helps my inner world of thought and mood to regain and then sustain an inner rhythm less frantic, more attuned to the harmonies around and within, resetting the beat and timing of life.
Of course, reflection encourages introspection, which is no bad thing in itself. I have a fairly strong introspective strand, and a lifetime of reading, writing, and busy social engagement with people often means the tension between wanting to be alone and wanting to be with people. So the beach is a good place for such relief. Solitude is not loneliness, and spiritual writers have long distinguished between the two. In solitude there is time to listen to our life, and to become reacquainted with who we are becoming
When I walk the wave line I am often focused on the sand, and whatever the sea deposits there. I've learned to pay attention to shells, stones shaped by friction, wood worn smooth and reshaped, and often the happenstance arrangement of such fragments along the edges of the tide. To stop, look, see, gaze, even study this particular randomly placed artefact of the sea is an exercise in pondering the trivial, except that once you start looking and reflecting, something happens. A mind has noticed; an imagination stirs; a coalescence of thought, feeling and present circumstance give this previously unnoticed shell, a significance which may transcend that attended moment.
The photo is one such captured moment. A mussel shell contains sand, seawater and reflected sky. An accidental microcosm which left me with a deep sense of wonder at the casual beauty of something so transient. It provided a moment of gratitude and something hard to describe, but what I might call amazement. The shell had been home to a creature now gone, and was now a useless discard. Except that I saw it, admired its beauty, and felt a surge of gladness for the gift of such random loveliness.
In a time of great sadness and slow recovery, I've found such immersion in the detail of life around me helps in the hard work of adjustment. They are gentle reminders of the everyday miracle of life, consciousness, and our ability to see and interpret the world. A discarded shell has the power to grant a sabbath from sorrow.
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