For as long as I can remember, I have always been drawn to the ocean.
I spent the first 28 years of my life, wandering the beaches with my beautiful mother, in search of the “holy grail” – aka agates
We would drive around for hours, walk for miles, scale cliffs, walk live train tracks and put our lives in danger more often than I realized back then, simply to find a new beach where no one else dared to go. It was like she was hoping for the off chance that somehow, we would find “agate paradise” and could simply plop down in the damp sand and have as many sweet little creamy stones as we could ever want, within arms reach.
Every year for her birthday, no matter the weather….all she wanted to do was go to the beach and look for rocks, have a bonfire and enjoy a picnic. Here in Bellingham WA, March 11th is very rarely anything but windy, stormy and often times, downright miserable as far as the weather goes. Being the only fools to spend half a day at the beach in the middle of a windstorm, having to chase our potato chip bags across the sand before the seagulls stole them away, bundled up in our big poofy coats like poor “little brother Randy” from “A Christmas Story
She passed away in 2002 when I was just 28 years old, after a long fought battle with her fourth round of cancer and it wasn’t until after she left us that I started to really think about how much time she spent at the beach and how it seemed to be the one place where I could go after she passed away, where I felt the closest to her…even if I was just sitting in an emotional heap, sifting rocks through my fingers for an hour.
Boulevard Park, at “home” in Bellingham WA, became my “Momma” spot where I would walk the beach for a bit and then go find my way under the boardwalk where no one could see me cry and the waves crashing on the boulders around me, muffled my sobs.
Over the years, I started noticing that I was not the only person wandering the beaches alone with their head hanging low, hoping to hide tears that left salt streaks on their cheeks. I passed too many faces filled with worry, anxiety, fear and grief. I noticed the people sitting on the edge of the water, appearing to watch the sunsets along side of me – but knowing that familiar glassy eyed look, meant they were no where near me, but were off in a memory of another time and place, wishing they could go back.
I watched the single parents struggling to keep up with a tiny explorer while trying to hold themselves together and hide their pain and envy at watching all of the two parent families who oozed love all over the playground.
I noticed the elderly that walked alone… slowly, painfully…sometimes with tiny dogs in tow, sometimes being towed by a snorting, equally gray-haired mass of fluff…just to feel alive for a while and to hear someone else’s voice besides their own.
Discovering that “My” place to “ponder and wander” was home to so many others who went there to emote, think and sometimes to forget…gave me a new way to honor my mother in a way that would have made her eyes light up the way they used to when I would come running back toward her on the beach, oblivious to my skinned and bloodied knees – holding out the “Mother of all agates” that I had risked my life to get, just for her.
Now, instead of wandering my “Momma spot” to hide myself away to have a good cry – I walk along the path, pulling painted stones from my pockets with little messages I have written on them. I leave them along the way for those that are hanging their heads to hide their tears that are falling… for whatever reasons, the ones that are feeling the weight of the world on their shoulders and just need a little “something” to remind them that they are stronger than they think they are and for the people who just needed to know that there are others out there in the world, who really do care…and they aren’t as alone as they feel.
I don’t cry when I go to the beach anymore.
I smile and I remember that a single beautiful stone, found in a sea chaos, relentless winds that threaten to knock you down and days that chill you to the bone – can bring warmth and joy to the person that finds it.
Follow my treasure leaving adventures on instagram and see where I have left little bits of love along the way. – PocketSizedPhilanthropy
magazines that my step-Grandpa “Grandpa Lindsey,” had in his treasure collection in the basement. My little sister and I used to go explore and play down there amongst the piles of “everything” – while the parents and grandparents were upstairs, doing whatever it was that grown ups did when they got together in the 80’s that “wouldn’t be any fun for kids.”
to play with, I made my way to the corner of WONDER AND AWE where Grandpa kept his towers of National Geographic magazines… where I would get lost in there for hours.
someday and take pictures of it all.” He whispered into my ear.
a teacher ever did see and half the time, even though I was assigned one country to do my report on…poor Mr. Jabbora or Mr. Ames had to sit and grade the other 2-3 “Extra credit” reports I did on top of the required paper, just so I could cut out more beautiful photos and share about another country I had learned about. I was sad that I was not going to be able to do that anymore, as my mom couldn’t afford to buy me the magazines and I couldn’t very well destroy the ones in the library, just to make my history reports look beautiful.
, painted shells and wooden shapes left in secret in places where many might not even notice, isn’t doing much to help all of the people I dream of helping and maybe it doesn’t feed their bellies the way I wish I could…but I have hope that it is somehow feeding their souls, one person at a time.
The Warm Fuzzies Revolution 