As I made my way through the gate at Edisto State Park, I was greeted by the sweetest face and friendliest smile.
"Just one, I told her" as I handed her my credit card to pay my entrance fee.
"When I see people coming to the beach alone it makes me think they are coming to leave their troubles in the water," she responded, looking me in the eye.
"I'm gonna try," I answered, tearing up immediately.
"Now listen, Honey, You can pray about it or worry about it, but you can't do both. You go on and have a good day and don't you cry. It is gonna be okay, ya hear me? It is gonna be okay." And with that admonition she waved me into the park.
I grew up on Hilton Head Island, so a pristine beach feels like my birthright. It was the early 1970's and I literally often had North Forest Beach to myself. Rest and relaxation was at my fingertips. But it was over 30 years later that I discovered Edisto for myself for the first time. For some reason, I had brought my little children out on a sunny day in February to walk. And to my utter delight and surprise, the beach was mostly empty of people but overflowing with seashells. My first gathering of shells that day inspired me to paint and curate my "Broken into Beautiful" Collection of paintings. But that is another story for another day.
But today, the sky was at the fullest blue, the clouds were at their voluminous white and the Atlantic seemed to have emptied her bounty on the seashore - the shells, the shells, the shells. Over ankle deep in some areas, and continuing to roll in with the incoming tide.
I started my time with a Galloway Method run/walk/run North to the Eddingsville inlet. Not taking a bag or any container, I was "forced" to run all the way back with handfuls of shells pumping the air as I finished the three and a half mile distance.
Rewarding myself with a swim, I began to feel that troubles, might indeed be washed away here. The water was a little rough, revealing the reason for the "Red Flag," so I very carefully enjoyed the salt water bath.
Every time I am at Edisto I wonder why I don't make the trip more often. The park has wonderful amenities, and really, the quiet, wild beauty of it all is quite overwhelming. And the shells, did I mention the shells?
I was asked today what kind of shells I like to pick up. I responded, "I like the broken ones." The lady looked puzzled, but a gentleman nearby remarked that there was a woman who came and sat for hours picking up the broken ones.
I don't have a definitive answer, but perhaps it is because they feel so familiar: ragged edges, exposed insides, and yet, somehow solid in it's core. I sometimes gasp at the sheer vulnerable beauty of it lying there, ancient in it's form, mathematically perfect in it's divine ratio.
We are actually fearfully and wonderfully made, right down to our core - all ragged edges, vulnerabilities exposed, and sometimes washed right up in our lives. It isn't always gaspingly beautiful, sometimes it is glaringly ugly in the midst of grief, trials, and struggles. The weight of trouble cannot always be cast off. But some days the weight can be exchanged - leave the tears in the sea, and carry the weight of a few shells home with you.
I find out her name is Sally. I stop on my way out. I leave my car and walk to the gate house. She knows why I am coming and she envelopes me in a tender hug. I still cry - but I am smiling and she likes that. She reassures me once again that it will all be okay. And I believe her.
Isak Dinesen was right;
"Sweat, Tears, and the Sea - Saltwater is the cure for everything"
- and sometimes it takes all three.
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