Beach Glass: A Metaphor for My Tumultuous, Wonderful Life

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Building Resilience 

My therapist, and science in general, says that those who are resilient have an easier time of grief than those who are not. This is also true for those, like me, who are suffering from anticipatory grief - knowing a loved one is dying, and ambiguous loss - living with a loss that is not well defined, such as brain degeneration, where the losses come a little at a time. There are many ways to build resilience. One way that I do it is being in nature - but by far, my greatest, most favorite form of nature, is without question, the roar of the ocean.  

Beach Music 

I consider the roar of the ocean to be my own personal beach music. From the rushing of the waves onto the sand, to the thuds of waves crashing over rocks, the steady, mostly predictable waves provide me with comfort. I also find water heals my soul in ways the other elements do not. The beach music is accompanied by various birds that squawk as they dive bomb the ocean, searching for fish, or cheap as they just call to each other. Finally, just like the cycle of the breath, there is a moment of silence after the wave comes in and peaks at the top, and again after the wave goes out. Sometimes I time my breathing to the ebb and flow of the ocean.  

Tides 

I haven’t troubled myself to learn when the tides come in and when the tides roll out. (Although it may well impact the success of my beach glass haul.) I sneak away when I have the chance, and just watch and listen to the waves. Sometimes I stand in the path of a wave, and feel the sand disappearing beneath my feet. Other times, I stay on dry land. But if I watch carefully, sometimes I can see the beach glass amongst the waves, either rolling up or rolling down the coastline.  

Time Immemorial 

I often think, when I am there, about the fact these oceans have been here since the dawn of time. And will be here long after Mr. J, and I are gone. This allows me to connect with the vastness of the universe. I collect bits of glass, in various shades of blue, green, white, and brown. I wonder what shape the glass was in originally. How it got to the bottom of the sea. Why, on earth, am I collecting these baubles. “They would look cute in a vase in the bathroom,” I tell myself. “What about when you die,” I ask. “Do you expect your precious sea glass to be handed down, from generation to generation? So that someday, someone will be moving in with their person, and announce, “These are my great grandma’s sea glass pieces that she collected from the ocean while great grandpa Mr. J was dying.” I snicker to myself, thinking of my great granddaughter or great grandson treasuring these glass pieces I’ve collected. Who knows? Maybe, after I’m gone, someone will return them to the sea.  

My Own Emotion Ocean 

I think about the journey of the beach glass. Each piece once started out as a whole, useful object. Perhaps a perfume bottle. Or a jar of medicine.  Or a fishbowl. Each piece was somehow shattered but survived. As I bob around in my own emotion ocean, I feel a bit like sea glass. Shattered. No longer the whole, useful object I once was.  Battered and bruised, tumbled by the waves of grief, shoved against rocks and rubbed against sand. But still able to be beautiful, peaceful, of value. Sometimes, I am tossed upon the proverbial sand, where it is warm, and safe, and quiet. During those times, I bask in the sun that is my wonderful, almost normal life with Mr. J. Inevitably, an enormous wave comes and takes me back to sea. But I know, with absolute certainty, that I will wash up on the sand again. Not forever. But long enough to take a breath and take in the wonder.