Spirals of Grief

The walls of my apartment were an ill fitting container, unable to hold my grief. I could not bear another sunny afternoon indoors, and the thought of another moment on the couch was only exacerbating the anxiety I felt, the wrongness of the loss. Knowing there are words forever left unsaid.

My apartment could not contain me and so I found myself walking, almost pulled, to wander the trails near home.

I had spent a year living in a small lake town, a year spent a mile from the shore, and this would be my first time I would approach it.

The trail was winding and confusing with many minor trails created through hundreds of feet trundling off the beaten path. I took the time to explore all these newly created paths.

Normally, I would block the world out with noise with music or Audiobooks. But my mind was too scattered, the grief too confusing, so I let myself forgo the wall of sound, and I was present on the trail with all of my senses.

I listened intently to the world around me, and still, I heard music. The waves lapped the shore with the gentleness that felt foreign in comparison to the miasma of emotion within me. I felt a pull, a force guiding me with the same gentleness of the waves towards the shoreline.

I eagerly left the main trail at the first sign of a beaten path that went in the direction of the lake, which had just begun to peek through the trees before me.

I felt my weary heart and mind start to ease as I stepped down from the trail and out onto the partially receding shoreline. The year's drought was finally evident to me as I spotted the distinct line of muck meeting sand and dry earth. The water had been pushed back, several feet of earth that had been underwater was now revealed.

The shoreline before me was littered with clamshells, thousands of fingernail sized fans of white and purple still connected to their other halves at the hinges. I excitedly scanned the ground, choosing a particularly purple bivalve and a few bright red and pink quartz. I wished to bring home just a bit of beauty from the lake.

I walked the shoreline, eyes downcast for any more lake treasure only so often looking up to enjoy the scene around me. Easily distracted by the wonder and excitement of any natural findings I took to searching out things I could bring home as a souvenir for myself and my partner. Something to remember that a part of this world is still beautiful despite the recent news that had staggered my family. Despite the fact that bones will turn to ash and life will be packed away.

I made my way down the waterline, the sun beating down on one of the first 90° days of May, a welcome feeling on my skin since I’ve been pale for months working and living mostly indoors. I welcome the sweat and the burn of my legs, it brought life back to my body and mind.

I wonder to myself what else I may find besides thousands of clam shells.

Almost on queue, as if a direct answer to my wishes, I spotted the tip of a perfect spiral half buried, but wholly intact in the sand at my feet.

I reached out and plucked it from the sand. I was amazed to find that it was whole without a crack or blemish. My luck in hunting shells has never been fruitful no matter whether I was in the ocean or lake. I was mesmerized by its deep greens and browns. The intricacies of each layer stacked up upon layers wrapped all the way around the shell ending in a perfect spiral point.

I thought if there is one there will be many more. I could not stop myself from the sudden reprieve from the grief and exhaustion. The excitement in my find was that of a child finding something rare and special.

I was shocked to find that they were not rare at all. Tens of spiraled jewels burst into view as I scanned the ground. There was no stopping my ever curious eyes from scanning every inch of shoreline near me.

Boaters passed with their blaring music. As they passed by I could hear the heavy bass pass from my left to my right into and out of range of my hearing.

I cared little for what the boaters might have thought of me. A lone bear of a man, wandering up and down the shoreline, squatting down and occasionally checking the perfection of each spiraled shell I found. Some shells showed through the mud, but upon closer inspection, I found they were crushed or broken in some way.

There is a time and place for giving space to broken things. I was of the mind that that space was held for myself at this moment so only the perfect spirals would do.

I scoured the lakeside. My effort was well rewarded as I carried six shells, large and small of various shades of deep greens and browns. They had been lodged in the mud for an untold number of days. It felt, in my confusion and grief, that drought had struck and pulled the water back just so I may find this treasure. Most of the shells had been found close to the water's edge.

Had the snails that created the shells died in the heat stuck in the drying earth, unable to make it back to water? Or had they long since passed, the receded shoreline giving away to long undisturbed burial grounds.

I rested them on the ground at the waterline. I kneeled down and for the first time in over a year of living by this lake, I dipped my fingers into the water. It was warm in the May sun, and at a closer look I was able to see just below the surface, hundreds of tiny, quartz rocks, ablaze in deep reds and bright pinks. My nose drew near and picked up a faint dankness, the muck and algae beneath me stinking in the sun.

I’m reminded that this bright and beautiful lake, with warm waters and myriad of natural treasures, is horribly polluted. A hydroelectric power plant is situated on one part of the lake, puffing out clouds of fog, polluting the lake for years. A waist plant could be found as well. It seems too frequently now we are receiving alerts of toxic waste dumping making the lake hazardous to swim in. I thought little harm, if any, would come from dipping my hands in the water. There were, after all, boatfulls of people ignoring this restriction. I could hear them splashing and laughing as I knelt beside the water.

One at a time I dipped the shells in, each pass through the water revealing vibrant greens that had been covered. Each shell was full of dirt and debris. I could only assume I was also washing out bits of the shells long past inhabitants.

Some shells I found were not as perfect as I had once assumed, removing the dirt head revealed the small imperfections I had missed. One was chipped along the side, a long scrape, forming a bright white line across the otherwise perfect green of its surface. Another had two parallel holes in the tip of the spiral, whether by predator or by chance, I deemed the damage acceptable. I may be able to make a lovely pendant of this one, I thought. The rest of the shells were nearly perfect after rinsing them of debris. I sat and marveled at the newly revealed colors. I laid each clean shell in a line on a log so they may dry in the sun.

As the shells dried, I stayed kneeled on the ground, unbothered by the slow sinking of my shoes in a mud beneath me.

I took stock. The previous year and the recent months had been a whirlwind of struggle, and the winter and spring showed me more death than I’d seen in years. Three deaths and two death beds attended. I had missed the third and most recent death bed by about 600 miles and I could not have hoped to have attended. It wasn’t feasible. Another regret piled on, they were adding up with this. She was my family after all.

I could not help but regret the relationship that could’ve been, will never be, never was. I was told it was the elders responsibility to connect with their family, they should’ve known better. But at what point, in my 28 years, should I have known better? I was too self-absorbed, too distracted by my own life. My mental health had always held me back. I was just catching up. I should’ve had the wisdom to reach out when I was less involved in my own constant healing.

This year had been a storm and it blew through me, leaving me winded and confused.

I thought of this and tiny waves kissed my feet. The natural world around me was bringing me to my senses. I looked at the shells I had found lined neatly atop a log. I held onto this simple joy for as long as I could.

The waves continued to roll softly and arrived with another gift. Another shell rolled with the largest wave Id seen, likely from the wake of a passing boat. The shell was covered in fresh algae, and there looked to be some kind of barnacle. It was much larger than the six I had found. As if by magic, the shell landed on the shore right at my feet.

I scooped the newfound gift of the lake up and was surprised by a major difference in this newcomer, a hardened trapdoor of shell was shut tightly at the opening.

I was of the assumption that snails were completely soft, to see something the same make up of the rest of its shell closing the entrance was astounding to me. I assume this could only mean I was holding a live snail, not an empty shell like the ones lining the log before me.

Unsure what I should do with it, not wanting to hurt a living creature, I took a moment to admire its shell. This creature was likely old. It had a large shell with algae and natural growths across it. I was a bit disappointed that I could not bring it home with me as this snail had the most handsome shell I had seen that day.

I was cognizant that I was now intruding on its life and it’s habitat. I chose to kindly return it to the water instead of leaving it ashore. Another large wave rolled in and reached towards me with outstretched hands of foamy warmth. I thought the lake might be thanking me for returning a life to it.

It’s funny the meaning we project onto things.

I returned home, a sense of lightness over me. The fresh air, warmth, and natural discovery had rejuvenated me in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks.

I gently washed the shells with soap and a toothbrush, scrubbing away and removing any dirt. I was proud of my bounty and eager of what it was I had found.

A quick Internet search squashed my excitement altogether.

The invasive Chinese mystery snail. The news of this left the pit in my stomach, somehow souring my excitement.

These snails were an invasive threat to the environment, over producing and over consuming. They blocked pipes and waterways and carried parasites.

Recommended: remove and kill living snails.

I had saved and returned one.

At once from a passive enjoyer, a peaceful recipient of beauty, now an accomplice in someway to harming the lake I called home.

It was a small, ignorant action, not much all things considered. One snail on an entire lake. But it is the accumulation of small ignorant actions that have led to mass ignorance.

I closed my laptop and looked to the line of snail shells on my kitchen counter. It suddenly made sense to be why I found so many. Several perfectly kept, but many more had been left behind, broken in the sand.

In light of this, I do not think I could have brought myself to kill that snail. I don’t think I regret returning that one. How could I purposely kill something I looked at and immediately deemed to be beautiful?

Amidst the death I had already experienced, I wished to forgive myself this small regret of this one snail. The regrets I had were already too much, so I could not add one more.

If small acts of ignorance can build something bigger than themselves, then perhaps so too could small acts of forgiveness. I hope that the forgiveness I give myself, little by little, will one day wash away the regret. It is ever spiraling, like the shells I found that day.