The best part of living in the Florida Panhandle is THE BEACH. Isaac has preschool one morning a week, and if I have time after running the necessary errands, Pensacola Beach is where I go. Once I tried to jog, but all I end up doing is looking for seashells. I love the beach, even in the winter when it’s brisk— the waves offering up salt water on the wind, a private sandstorm stinging your ankles. This day it was high tide–no shells. I contented myself with launching the seagulls.
“Finding anything good?” I asked the other ladies I passed beach combing on a calmer day.
“No,” said one. “Well actually, I kept seeing these plain white shells, and finally I realized how strong they must be to be the only shells to make it intact through the waves and the surf. That’s got to count for something, right? So I collected a bunch of them.”
“I’m looking for broken sand dollars,” said a lady further down the shoreline. “I use them in my art. It’s about finding beauty in brokenness.”