Meditation

You are walking on a beach. You are alone. Glassy waves curl and spill nearby. Deep green ribbons of kelp glisten limp on the pale-gold sand. The sky is turquoise; fleecy clouds drift overhead. You feel warm sand beneath your feet and between your toes, a cool breeze against your cheeks, the sun on your face and arms. You hear the shudder and suck of the waves, the distant call of gulls. You smell the salt in the air, the fishy odor of seaweed. You walk. You watch and listen.

In the distance, you see a small object lying on the beach. You cannot tell what it is, but you know it is waiting for you. You walk toward it, slowly. No need to hurry: it is there for you.

Now you can see it is a shell. You draw closer. You are standing next to the shell, looking down at it where it lies in the sand. You pick it up. It is white, spiral, and hard. It is perfect and very old.

You know this: This shell was created by a creature under the sea. It was made for you. The sea has kept it for a long time. It has waited, waited. It has been waiting for you. Now, as you walk on this beach, it has delivered the shell up to you.

You hold the shell. You look at it, weigh it in your hand. Now, you put the shell to your ear. You listen to what it is telling you. What it says only you can hear.