There is a section of beach not far from us that is revealed only at low tide. Rather than sand, it is covered by pebbles and crushed shells. This small area is simply magic, not only because of the colors, but also because of the music the fringe of waves creates when it washes so softly over the pebbles. Think the softest wind chime made of bone and glass. Of course, low tide has to be early morning or late evening in order to hear this, because the voices of happy beach-goers hide the delicate wash of the sea.
On another note, I try to post a photo a day. Looking through my photos has become an almost contemplative exercise, as is my time on the tide line itself. This past weekend, though, found the days filled with literally dozens of family and friends. Contemplative time became (by necessity) not solitary, but cooking, visiting, walking baby, playing game time. My quiet times shifted to minutes and hours spent sharing happy conversations with friends from the west coast to east, and family from New Mexico to England all gathering at our home.
Anne Morrow Lindberg wrote in her book, Gift from the Sea: “I believe that true identity is found . . . in creative activity springing from within. It is found, paradoxically, when one loses oneself. Woman can best refind herself in some kind of creative activity of her own.” I love my quiet time on the tide line, and the time spent with my photographs when I return home. I also, though, love the creative activity that is hosting a houseful. Perhaps I am learning the art of fashioning for myself the balance of both.