Shells…

…with holes in them


Last year, I found my Christmas tree. This Christmas, I found my adornment.

The tree was purchased for €1.25 at the Euro Store (that's the Spanish equivalent of a Pound Shop/Dollar Store – the Chinese get about, don't they?). With the exception of a little woollen fairy (to sit atop), which cost €1, I had no intention of buying decorations cos I'm on the road. So, I decided to make them. I resolved – because I walk my dogs along the beach more or less every day – to decorate my tree with shells.

There was a time, in my youth, when I'd comb the beach for the most beautiful shells I could find. But in this year of my life, I combed the shoreline for the imperfect, the wounded, the worn down; shells with holes in them. It's amazing, if you take the time to look, just how many shells there are with precise little holes in them. It's like there's a production line of mermaids somewhere under the ocean, doing it with drill bits.

It was whilst in pursuit of my quarry that I had thought: I am a shell with a hole in it. What if we're all shells with holes in them and we don't know it – we can only feel it, in the fragile hours? And supposing that were true, then wouldn't it also be true that despite all the coveted, beautiful, most perfect shells that wash up on the shoreline – there must be others, like me, looking for the one with a hole in it?

To my readers: I'm glad I found you, and you me.


Merry Christmas!

my dogs, this morning (L-R: Wilberforce, Boycie, Harpo)

–Cheyelle


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