Collecting....Birdies

It all began with Carlos....

Our third baby came along six years after we thought our family was complete.  He burst into our life at a very inconvenient time, and taught us all to see the joy in unexpected gifts.  However, it took Noah some time to value this lesson, as he was promptly demoted from "baby of the family" to "big brother."  Perhaps this is why, when one of the stuffed birds adorning Andy's Little Einstein playmat came up missing, we knew immediately that six year old Noah was to blame.  Andy was, luckily, oblivious to the sudden change in his scenery, so I allowed Noah to keep the little red cardinal he had named Carlos.  Little did I know how the next few years of our life would be filled with conversations, playtime, even shopping trips revolving around 'the birdies,' or how this one act of piracy would form an unshakable bond between my three precious children.

Noah's collection of tiny stuffed animals, all of whom he called 'the birdies', began to grow.  A set of dinosaur puppets purchased on a trip to Las Vegas a year earlier became Carlos' first family.  McDonalds helped with tiny beanie babies and Neopet happy meals.  A few larger additions- Sully from Monsters, Inc., and Penelope the Dragon from Shrek- became parents to the collection.  Nicole and Noah played endlessly, creating scenes and adventures throughout our home.  Noah made furniture for them, and a beuatiful three foot tall, two story house.  Nicole's Barbie van became the family vehicle; a camper was created out of waffle blocks and pulled by Noah's Tonka truck.  Every minitature find at Wal-Mart or a local antique mall drew an excited cry of, "look, mom, for the birdies!" 

As they grew from pre-schoolers to tweens, and Andy became old enough to join, the games continued.  A few new additions have been made, including a real Pop-up camper and SUV to haul it.  I still occasionally hear, "let's play birdies," but I know it is now a time passing away.  All three of them are close to outgrowing this innocent world of imaginary play, and knowing this brings a twinge of sadness. 

How long until they all become locked in their own struggles, grown beyond these precious moments?  What will signal their coming of age?  In our house, one sure sign will be when we no longer hear Noah announce he's found a 'birdy bathtub' in an antique teacup.

The Perfect Shell

I once sent a card to my dad with the inscription, 'It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to be born a collector of seashells than a man of wealth.'  How true.  For seashells are perfect gifts...simple, elegant, beautifully designed, and free to those willing to search for them.

I searched for the perfect shell once.  I was searching for much more, but I made a bargain with the seashore.  I convinced myself that if I found the perfect shell - a beautiful, spiraled treasure with a pearly pink interior and geometric star shaped crown, one that had not been crushed or broken by the onslaught of tides and the rough abrasion of sand - I would know my prayers had been answered, my peace restored, my life put back together again.  I searched for days, eyes to the sand while the warm salty air swirled around me and the kids played in the surf nearby.  I picked up shell after shell, seeing the perfect crown or the side of it jutting from it's soft bed, only to discover when I retrieved it that is was imperfect, broken, not the shell I needed so desperately to find.  I began to lose hope.

Then on the final day of my search, when I'd almost given up on the quest, I spotted the pale brown side of the perfect shell.  The crown was smooth, all the points still there...it was just large enough to fit in my hand, I picked it up gingerly, then almost threw it back when I saw that, once again, the side had been broken, it was not what I sought.  Then I noticed the pearly, gleaming pink of the inside of this shell, and I paused.  I was taken by the absolute smoothness , the luminescence of this protected inner surface that is often dismissed as we look for the perfect exterior peeking through the sand.  And it hit me.  This was the answer I sought, the metaphor for my life, the vision I needed. 

You see, we are much like this shell.  It is created by the creature who calls it home, from the inside out.  As it grows, the shell grows, spiralling ever outward.  The outer layer of the shell becomes ever more symmetrical, ordered, solid, strong.  It is battered by the elements, tossed in the surf, thrown onto the sand and then grabbed hungrily by the retreating waves to be dragged back into the sea once more.  All the while, the tiny inhabitant is protected, surviving, continuing to create the shelter it needs.  And the material it creates around itself  is smooth, beautiful, pearlescent, serene.  We all have an outer shell, and we've been building it since we were children, adding to it, pushing it outward for the world to see.  We've been tossed by the waves, thrown upon the sand, and dragged back into the fray of life again and again.  Some don't survive.  They abandon the shell, seeking something better, or give up entirely.  If we are strong we remain inside our shell as the tides of life toss us about, and we keep building.  The longer we survive, keep fighting against the storms of life, the more beat up our outer shell becomes,  the stronger our inner shell becomes.  We build within ourselves a soft place to fall, a protected place polished smooth by the wisdom we've gained and the ability to let go of anger, resentment, and fear.  What we build is beautiful, smooth, pearlescent, serene. 

I needed not to find the perfect seashell, but to see the strength within myself. The sea had held up its end of our bargain.  I held my treasure close, and joined my babies in the foam.....