A lifetime ago, Juliana Wallace majored in English at Utah State University. On the heels of those auspicious beginnings, she pursued a semi-intentional corporate career in technical communication, followed by a wholly accidental career in music. Now, pen in hand, she navigates the chaos of middle age and attempts to reconnect with her soul. You can find more of her work at http://skippingpastcornfields.blogspot.com/
The vacation came at a perfect time, and yet I had difficulty relaxing into it. With each corporate cutback adding more duties and employees to my already full roster, the stress had built to the point where I began practicing meditation twice a day just to keep myself intact. In days my husband, Brad, would finally graduate from college. We had two active boys, ages three and eight, and juggling daycare with a demanding job and elementary school and sports and church responsibilities just added to the stress that had my brain spinning.
Here I was at Wells Beach in southern Maine. It was still pre-season, with few tourists and weather too cold for swimming. Brad, ever the night owl, loved to watch the tide roll in in the middle of the night. I preferred early-morning solitary walks on the beach. Initially, I simply walked and breathed, listening to the waves and welcoming the change from the recorded wave song I used as background for my meditation. I suppose the CD was more tuneful, infused with almost subliminal melody, but I prefer the freshness of live nature with the occasional breaks in rhythm and the sea-smell accompaniment.
Once I hit my stride I began to look around me. I have spent little time at the ocean in my life, and my early beach memories are of the Gulf Coast. I remembered combing for shells as a young girl. Now, with childish anticipation I looked for shells, envisioning the piles I would bring home to the boys. I quickly discovered that this beach was rather hard on sea creatures. I found lots of fragments and egg-shaped rocks smoothed and rounded by the endless waves. Intact shells, however, eluded me. Occasionally I found intact clam shells, but as they lack the mysterious quality of the more fragile or rare specimens, I soon fixated on finding a complete sand dollar. The combination of the delicate artistry of the shell of the sand dollar with its breakability made it doubly intriguing. I searched on every beach walk but without success.
I awoke on the last morning, knowing we would head home soon and feeling less than satiated. I felt an angst I couldn’t quite shake, and I worried about returning home, wondering how long I could maintain the pace. One last walk. It was raining, chilly, and the beach was nearly empty. Always susceptible to the cues in my surroundings, I felt the gray day bring all of that angst to the surface. As I often do, I talked with God while I walked, pleaded to know that He was listening and cared. I closed my eyes and felt the rain hit my jacket. One last deep breath, and I opened my eyes to the day.
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a perfect sand dollar, almost winking at me from the sand at my feet. Funny how God, with all the powers of heaven at His disposal, can pack such a punch with the completeness of a fragile sand dollar. I picked up the shell and danced down the beach, throwing the hood of my jacket back and letting the rain stream down my face while I
laughed out loud. Moses had his burning bush, and Joan of Arc had her visions. Insignificant as it might seem, I held a sand dollar and felt divinely loved.
I lost my job the next day, quite unexpectedly. For a few minutes I felt lost in freefall, and for a day or two my stomach lurched anxiously. But then a heady sense of freedom crept in and grew. After all, I had held a sand dollar in my hand, and I could feel clean rain on my face, mixing with the spray of ocean waves that needed no artificial melody.
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