A friend gave me twenty-six seashells. Each is beautiful, complex, and unique. They are unexpected gifts found in unexpected places to be received, treasured and shared. The twenty-second shell.
Looking back over all the seashells posts this morning, I think I’ve inadvertently traced the shape of the past ten months. I’ve often thought it was a shame that I wasn’t “tracking” the wanderings very well. Archiving the goings on of my life makes it all seem more solid, grounded…and connected. But it seems I have kept track of it all, in a way.
In all of these posts…and in the “archiving” process itself, there’s always a reaching in or a reaching forward — similar to what I find in reading a good story. I search and wonder — sometimes grasp — for integration, personal and intimate involvement, and movement toward that ultimate…oh, what would you call it? Not the moral of the story. Not the purpose of the story. That sounds too functional, as though I could take a good story or the story of my life and bend it to my own whims. Which I suppose is possible, though probably not creative or life-giving. But a good story has a certain drive — it may be strong and loud, or gentle and nearly invisible, but it is a drive toward something. The fullness of its potential for beauty? Eh. Not “potential.” That sounds so…functional. Like motivational self talk. How about….capacity. The drive, or the longing, to find the story’s capacity for beauty? Or increase it?
Hmm.
Whatever it is…it seems the arrival of that something remains on the horizon or in the air like a soft mist that you can barely taste in your mouth.
A lost arrival is wandering…
Is the wandering arrival what keeps the heart of the creative drive beating with wild strength? It keeps hope alive — hope that the story’s capacity for beauty is endless.
A shell in honor of lost arrivals that wander and keep the desire for beauty alive and kicking.
this | liminality 
It kinda begs the question, “how much should I plan my life?” I wonder if those who under plan their lives lose out primarily on seeing the true stuff they’re made of by God. Those who over plan never get used to the gift of mystery, ambiguity and adaptability. Both belong to the spiritual life. Both deserve shells of commemoration. Go figure…or not.
R
As a wanderer, a frequent but not constant lost arrival, I often find myself in a similar place: a story is what I seek, and find it more helpful than a map, even if a map might be more useful in reaching my destination. Part of my struggle is wanting to actually go against the grain, to the map, to that clear, *specific* destination and plan. Or to let the simple “moral of the story” be enough for my childlike heart and have it provide motion, motivation. Beauty and order are not mutually exclusive, but they do come in conflict, plenty, and we each have our strengths and blind spots.
I hadn’t even thought much about the tension between planning and mystery (Rob, your comment above), beauty and order.
Looking at the story metaphor…most of the novels I truly enjoy take me to wild and unexpected places, but with a certain order to it. The author, no doubt, had some idea of where they story would be headed. The characters make decisions…there’s some degree of planning there…however chaotic the plot may be.
Hmm.
Need to sit with this further…
I made a couple of inarticulate attempts to reply to this post with some misty and barely tasted thoughts that reading it seemed to stir in me but … I’m sorry, it turns out this is another of those moments when all I can say is, “… yeah … hmmm…”
A “Yeah…hmmm…” means a great deal coming from a writerly wayfaring friend. Thank you, Seymour…