We just returned from Cape Cod and Nantucket where I had the privilege of spending some time at the seashore breathing in the fresh, clean, New England Air. Ahhhh!
We walked to Brandt Point Lighthouse this morning where I brought a paper shopping bag with me so that I could continue to collect seashells. Marc decided to sit on the rocks underneath the Light House while I proceeded to look for the most striking shells on the beach. Little did I know I was being watched while I did this. Apparently Marc turned into undercover paparazzi. He snapped some photos of me, like this one (below), in the act of collecting shells. Who knew I was being spied upon?
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I dumped all of the shells into our kitchen sink to rinse the smell of the ocean floor off of them. While I wanted the reminder of the seashore, I didn’t want the smell of the seashore inside the hurricane glass I’m intending on putting them in.
It’s funny, but I never collected shells before until Marc’s boss’s wife started picking up shells and giving them to us on as we walked alongNauset Beach. While I could’ve kept those shells to themselves, they triggered something in me. Suddenly, I had the need to collect as many seashells as possible when we went to the Francis Street Beach the following day. Was it that I wanted to hold on to my vacation memories for as long as possible? Is it that I don’t want summer to end? Or is there something about my need to collect those shells that can serve as a metaphor for collecting writing (observations and noticings)?
This is something I want to figure out, but I’m not really sure of the answer to at this moment.
TWO WRITING TEACHERS 