
My eyes strain to search amid the rocks for shells. Not whole shells, but broken bits and pieces.
You can go to any souvenir shop and buy shells, urchins, star fish, sand dollars and all those other ocean occupants. Lined up in baskets, neatly categorized. Just shell out your money and the shells are yours to take home and make into garish ashtrays.
Thanks, but no thanks.
What I'm looking for can't be bought. I like the bits and pieces. Each one is unique. As I turn the piece in my hand, I think about all the tides and water, the erosive action that it took to make this one-of-a-kind piece of art. Weathered, worn -- and it's beautiful. It doesn't look like a shell or a sand dollar. It looks like a sculpture, an abstractly lovely -- what? I'm at a loss for words.
And I know the very fact that I can't so readily identify it or put a name on it makes it all the more attractive and precious to me. So I admire its lines, its curves, its shapes. I roll it over and over in my hand to get a feel for it. I am forced to look at it anew again and again.
A sand dollar is a sand dollar is a sand dollar -- when it's whole. But find a fractured piece, exposing the interior. Is that Chinese writing I see inscribed in the calcifium carbonate chip? Is this an example of the microcosm reflecting the macrocosm? Perhaps my imagination is running away with me, but then, that's the whole idea, isn't it?
To accept the challenge. To push the limits. To see what's there beyond the superficial.
Am I crazy? That's irrelevant. Bear with me, please.

Like Muzak, the rhythmic, unceasing sound of waves, sometimes lapping, sometimes roaring, but always hypnotic, provide a perfect accompaniment to my musings. I spot another shell fragment, another clam piece.
Humanity at large and good friends in particular -- we are like those pieces. From our mother's watery womb we come forth whole. We all look alike. We're cute. Cheek-pinching, toe-kissing cute.
But with time, especially by our third act, we have gone with the flow of life, we have swam against the current, we've been caught up in life's whirlpools, we've ridden some of the waves and been almost drowned by others.
And now here we are. Washed ashore, but not washed up. Weathered but not beaten. Worn down but not out. We're beautiful.
Mon amies, I wrote the above words in 1998, back in my days as a feature editor and newspaper column writer. I thought about those words as I gathered shells and dodged sea foam during my recent visit to the Oregon coast. I hope you don't mind my reminiscence. I felt I needed to hear the words again, especially those last few lines ....

Have you ever done something a zillion times but then experience it all anew as if it were happening for the first time? That's how I felt feeding the seagulls. From Galveston beach in South Texas to Whidbey Island off the northwest coast of Washington, I've thrown crackers and bread to many a seagull. Did a lot of ducking, too. And covering my head.

But this time, Jonathan Seagull and his cronies -- well, we got up close and personal. I can honestly say I peered into the eyes of a seagull. And what a majestic creature it is. Disney reduced the bird to a set of wings that mindlessly repeated "Mine, mine" but in these couple of photos, you get a hint of what I experienced: their grace, strength and beauty.

I had the pleasure of watching a seagull eat his lunch, a mussel. No tartar sauce. Just straight from the shell.
Speaking of shells, my husband found the huge mussel shell you see at top holding my rocks, agates, seashell pieces and sea glass. It's the largest one I've ever seen, measuring just under 9 inches!
We also were treated to watching the antics of sea lions and seals out on the spit. Several kept swimming in our direction; their heads bobbing up out of the water, curiously eyeing us.

We enjoyed blue skies and sunshine with temperatures in the 50s on our first day. The second day got a bit grayer with rains interspersed in the late afternoon, but we dodged the wet stuff pretty well. We came home and found ourselves in a snow globe with temps in the low 30s. I love the variety, the beauty in it all. And give thanks for central heat!