The shell in my hand is deserted. It once housed a whelk, a snail-like creature; after the death of the first occupant, a little hermit crab, who has run away, leaving tracks behind like a delicate vine on the sand. He ran away and left me this shell. This was once his protection. Turning the shell in my hand, I gaze into the wide open door from which he made his exit. Had it become an encumbrance? Why did he run away? Did he hope to find a better home, a better mode of living? I too have run away, I realize. I shed the shell of my life when I made the small move from my home town to my current residence, and I have hopes of shedding this shell again in the near future.
But his shell -- it is simple; it is bare, it is beautiful. Small, only the size of my thumb, its architecture is perfect, down to the finest detail. Its shape, swelling like a pear in the center winds in a gentle spiral to the pointed apex. Its color, dull gold, is whitened by a wash of salt from the sea. Each whorl, each faint knob, each vein in its egg-shell texture is as clearly defined as on the day of creation. My eye follows with delight the outer circumference of that diminutive winding staircase up which the tenant used to travel.
My shell is not like this, I think. Blurred with moss, knobby with barnacles, its shape is hardly recognizable anymore. Surely there was a definite shape once. It has a shape in my mind. The shape of my life today starts with myself as the only person consistently present, I have things which I am in pursuit of. The shape is, of course, determined by other things, childhood and such. I want to give to those I care for, to share with friends, to carry out my obligations to the world as a woman, as an artist, as a citizen.
I want most of all, as an end to these other desires, to be at peace with myself. I want singleness of eye, a purity of intention, a central core to my life that will enable me to carry out these obligations and activities as well as I can. I want, to live "in grace" as much of the time as possible. I am not using this term in a strictly theological sense. By grace I mean inner harmony, essentially spiritual, which can be translated into outward harmony. I would like to achieve a state of inner spiritual grace from which I could function and give.
I mean to lead a simple life, to choose a simple shell I can carry easily. But I do not. I find that the frame of my life does not foster simplicity. It involves a shelter that requires most of my paycheck to maintain, planning, marketing, bills, and making the ends meet in a thousand ways. It involves clothes, shopping, laundry, cleaning, mending, letting skirts down, sewing buttons on. It involves friends, and endless arrangements to meet; letters invitations, telephone calls, and transportation.
Life today in America is based on the premise of ever-widening circles of contact and communication. This is not the life of simplicity but the life of multiplicity. It leads not to unification but to fragmentation. To be human is to have interests and duties, raying out in all directions from the central core, like spokes from the hub of a wheel. The pattern of our lives is essentially circular. We must be open to all points of the compass, stretched out, exposed, sensitive like a spider's web to each breeze that blows, to each call that comes.
There is no obvious answer, only clues for shedding distractions. Shells of channeled whelks from a sea I've never seen, suggest a simplification of life, cutting out distractions. I can't shed all responsibilities, permanently inhabit a desert island. The solution for me is neither a total renunciation of the world, nor complete acceptance. There must be something between the extremes; a swinging of the pendulum between solitude and communication, between retreat and return. During my periods of retreat, perhaps I can learn something to carry back to into my worldly life. I ask into my shell only those with whom I can be completely honest. The most exhausting thing in life, I believe, is being insincere. That is much of the reason social life is so exhausting.
Simplification of outward life is not enough. It is merely the outside. The final answer, I know is always inside, but the outside can give a clue. Channeled whelk, you have set my mind on a journey, up an inwardly winding spiral staircase of thought.
