Souvenirs from my trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. It’s always rocks and sometimes shells for me. I label each with the trip destination and date. Some friends laugh and think it’s a silly thing to do. Nothing could be farther from the truth. While they’re out fighting tourist crowds scouring souvenir shops for tchotchkes, I’m taking a meditative walk on a beach. The waves crashing the shore and the salty air enhancing the serenity of my search. The process is the part that matters, not the rock or shell themselves.
Sooner or later the souvenir tshirt of those that snicker at my rocks and shells won’t fit anymore. That precious more-than-likely-made-in-China shot glass will be forgotten in the back of a cabinet. And I’ll still have my rocks and shells. Gifts of the earth offered to help keep me humble and deepen my reverence for my place in things.
You can’t get that from a tshirt or shot glass.
My rock haul from my Provincetown vacation. Nice additions to my collection. I always write on the underside where and when I got them. For me it’s the best souvenir. Rocks have always held a fascination for me. How old are they? Where in the Earth did they form? How long have they been on this particular beach? We’re made of the same stuff. We are children of the Universe and cohabitants of the same planet. We are more connected than we realize.
