The Whorl

One day, I had been wandering about hunting that elusive creature, gainful employment, and was making my way back to my paramour's workplace.  A small pile of tattered yardsale lay beside the road.  In the pile was a large tropical conch shell.  It was a little dirty, but since it had no cracks or smashes, I picked it up and carried it along.

    When I got to my destination, a gentleman frequenting the establishment noted my conch shell, and we fell into an engrossing conversation about local maritime flora and fauna.  He left, saying that he would drop off some seashells for me some day.

    Now, I must admit to you, little blank page filling with my scratchings: I softly sneered inwardly at the notion of shells from down Cape.  I had grown up around here, after all, and was thus jaded to local shells.  So I scoffed...to myself, of course.

    Comes a day when my beloved calls me and says some guy dropped off a bag of shells.  'Huh, that was awfully nice of him..' I thought, still turning my nose up...

      The three dog whelk conchs are perfectly gradated in size, nesting beautifully in an utterly charming pattern.  They make a lovely bit of decor around the base of a planter, nestling with other shells, or alone as a central focal point.

      More valuable is the spiritual decor whispering from the shadows of the whorls.  I am humbled, and chastened, to know that I belittled this cheerful, random gift with expectations of banality.  The most mundane occurrence or familiar item can still harbor a spark of novel delight.