I walk across the threshold between street and sand and feet leave sunken tracks up the sandy drifts.
I reach the top of the dune and my breath hangs in the swirl of salt and sea.
I take in the vastness of this long stretch of beach as my feet obey the call of the crashing waves.
I feel small here —
the ebbing power of the green-blue ocean as it reaches beyond the horizon reminds me.
My bare foot finds the sharp edge of a shell and I search the sand for more.
The beach looks big from the top of the dune, but on my knees I see more clearly. Tiny grains of sand, pebbles, and shells surround me.
The beach is made from the small.
I lean closer and drag my finger across the small grains to the muffled drone of pounding surf.
The itty-bitty shell sits alone on the end of a finger — beautiful, delicate, appreciated.
But it's also a necessary part of the whole.
I may feel small here, but I'm kneeling on all that small can do.
I may be one, but my voice joined with others is a choir.
And suddenly, small becomes something very beautiful to me — no longer an excuse, but an amazing opportunity.