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| ID: a hand holding out seaglass. Credit: Alyssa. |
As a potential neurodivergent and queer child, I always had an affinity for collecting, categorising and organising things. It used to be butterflies – I had a pamphlet featuring all the types of butterfly that one could find in the UK and I would try to identify any I came across. Then it was marbles, the type sold at museum and science centre gift shops that you could get for pennies put in a little jewellery bag to take home – basing my choice on whatever colours or patterns I liked the most. Nowadays, especially since studying at St. Andrews, my collector's speciality is sea-glass. Both the physical product of sea-glass, as well as the meditative experience of beachcombing have become important to my routine and wellbeing. My reflections may feel whimsical, but I really do value the moments of tranquillity I find in collecting these small nugget-shaped pieces of glass.
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| ID: two hands holding out seaglass. Credit: Alyssa. |
The activity of collecting sea-glass can be so soothing. The sea-side setting with the sound of the waves and the smell of the salt air calm the mind. The physical component of walking, combined with keen attention to every speck of colour among the sand – looking for a piece of cloudy white, green, blue, or even a brown (or red if you’re lucky) occupy the body and mind. So much focus is placed on the task that other worries tend to drift away, like the pebbles caught within the waves.
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| ID: a hand holding out seaglass. Credit: Alyssa. |
Forced to slow down and take in the expansive horizon, I am reminded of how big the world is and how small my existence is relative to the entirety of the world. Especially during deadline/exam season, while I am thinking my life will end after one subpar mark on an essay, I am reminded that the world is still spinning, and the seas are still moving. None of it will stop if I slip up. In those minutes (or hours) I spend combing for sea-glass, I have permission to take a breather and to enjoy the experience of being an actual human being. Navigating my corporeal experiences as well as my intellectual and psychological ones, and doing it alongside all the forms of life and nature that we share our existence with.
And in terms of the sea-glass itself, the smallness and softness of the pieces remind me to be gentle and observant. As I look around I notice the shape of each piece, the colour – extra exciting when it’s a rare colour, the size, and sometimes along the way I’ll find a shell or stone I like the look of too. When I take them home and put them in the jar along with the rest, they become part of a gorgeous array of quiet moments and memories that stand to keep me grounded.
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| ID: a hand holding a lump of seaglass. Credit: Alyssa. |
This may be the hippy-dippy anthropologist in me, but in the lifecycle of a piece of seaglass I see a reflection of the experience of being a human. Just as a piece of glass from a bottle, for example, is broken and sharp but then smoothed in the sea with the rough waves and the coarse sand to become a beautifully soft piece of “treasure”. I see in this process reflected in the personhood in that we make mistakes or are faced with circumstances and challenges that break us, but in facing all the learning curves and taking all the time we may need to love and be loved and to heal – we can become softened. This may take decades upon decades, just as the process of the sea smoothing out broken glass, but we cannot rush it.
For me the physical and symbolic practice of beach-combing and sea-glass collecting is therapeutic. To have beaches so accessible is such a privilege and to take 10 minutes out from my day-long library session to remind myself that my entire world is not that 3,000 word essay – it makes such a difference. A little thank you to the planet’s oceans and seas for doing their thing.
By Alyssa (she/her)