The Healing Journey

July 5, 2026

A Wealth of Seashells and Wonders

By Barry Wallace

Did you ever dream of being fabulously wealthy and having piles of diamonds and rubies in casks by your side? I sometimes did as a kid. It was a pleasant daydream for a boy of modest circumstances. I believed in fairy tales and pots of gold.

However, another kind of wealth came out of my boyhood. The kind of wealth that grows with the years. It was the gift of the summers that we spent as a family on Pine Creek in Fairfield. Life on the beach was simple, and seashells were our fortune.

We discovered a beach full of them every new day along the shore. The shells were beautiful oddities. There was nothing like them anywhere else. Some of them were sharp enough to slice our callused feet. The grownups dug up the mussel and clam shells for supper. Seagulls flew high in the sky and dropped them to crack the goodness open. The best thing is that they were free. You found these natural wonders and put them in your pocket.

It fascinated me that each creature carried his own house on his back. We loved the fist-sized clams with the pearly glow on the inside. The Indians called them Quahog. Shells were a supply of food and a monetary system before the pioneers came with fire water and gold fever. Most of them were broken into chalky shards but we occasionally found perfect half shells beauties. Works of perfection.

Everywhere we walked we came across the fan-shaped blue mussels. They were usually covered in muck and wrapped in seaweed. When they split open they were sharp as a blade. The fresh meat inside was prized and ended up on many cottage tables. We also filled glass jars with jingle shells that are brushed with gold.

The spiral mansions of the whelk were our favorite. If you found one intact, you immediately held it to your ear and listened for the symphony of the ocean. Its swirling chambers invited you into hidden passages. A whelk shell was always a keeper. Royalty of the shoreline.

We pretended to shave our beardless faces with the long black razor clams. You couldn’t pass without picking it up and inspecting its unusual shape. The large brown brittle dome of the horseshoe crab was the roof of an ancient mollusk. How we tormented those harmless, innocent creatures who moved slowly along the low tide beach with their bulbous eyes and spiky tales. Star fish clung to the iron jetty.

The beach was rich with natural bounty. Little treasures lying in the sand, scattered jewels, children’s toys. We hefted them in hand, held them to our eyes, smelled the ocean depths and licked its salty tang. We tossed them, bartered them and brought them home to display on the porch railing. Prizes for a long walk. Strange visitors from the deep. The beach was a lesson in creation.

Seashells were the kin of driftwood, washed up on shore and holding secrets of a watery world. Mysterious living organisms etched with hypnotic designs. The silent denizens of tidal society that lived in shallow pools and burrowed in the sand. Mute ambassadors of Neptune’s kingdom. I listened for what they were saying to me. Holding a seashell is like reading the book of life.

Humans are drawn to the beach because the body remembers our long gestation in the womb. We are made of saltwater and can’t exist without it. We want to live near it. We sense our place in the community of life. As I walked the beach I was studying the scripture of earth. I didn’t need books then to explain it to me. I felt the immensity of the universe within a single shell.

In time I realized that we share a profound kinship. Seashells are like the stars at our feet, countless constellations, infinite numbers. Tiny galaxies between a child’s toes. I looked at them and asked what they are, and how they came to be. I looked at myself in the reflection of the tidal pools and wondered who I was, and where I fit in a beautiful and enigmatic universe.

I’m sure that anyone who has dipped their toes in beach sand or the cooling surf that slides back into the sea on the shoreline have asked themselves the same questions– because the water brings it out of us. Every swim is a form of baptism, an immersion in the great mystery of life and the unity of all existence.

Our little beach was just a short walk from St. Anthony Church where we worshipped on Sundays during the summer and celebrated another great mystery. In many ways the sound of the beach, the words of scripture and the sacraments came together for me into a communion of great gratitude and awe.

A boy’s wonder and a man’s faith were nourished at the beach. I came to understand that God’s love is as infinite as the seashells, a wealth and abundance that’s free to all who seek it.

(For many years, writer Barry Wallace taught English and composition at Fairfield College Preparatory School.)

***