Lessons in Collecting Beach Stones

By Cindy LaFerle

"Simplification of outer life is not enough."

  - Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Living downstate in the suburbs, I'm always a summer tourist -- a "fudgie"-- no matter how often I visit the northern half of my home state.

So be it. The opportunity to collect my wits and a few beach stones remains the highlight of my escapes to Glen Arbor on Lake Michigan. More adventurous souls dive head-first into its frigid waves, or ply its teal-blue waters on motor boats and jet skis. But I'd rather mine the shore for treasures.

Over the years I've learned that morning is the best time to hunt for beautiful beach stones. The water is usually calm, your outlook is refreshed, and, if you're really lucky, fellow beachcombers are still asleep. Rising with the sun, you'll get first pick of the gems that rolled in with the tide.    

If you're new to the region, it's always a thrill to uncover exceptional Petoskey stones, which seem to be getting rare these days. But don't overlook the subtle luster of milky quartz, and always keep an eye out for perfect skipping stones that were tumbled smooth by the waves.

Look closely, and you'll find stones imprinted with fossils, some bearing an uncanny resemblance to ancient tablets carved with runes or hieroglyphics. Others are miniature works of art, which you'd swear had been painted by an Asian calligrapher. As many Northern Michigan jewelers have already discovered, some of these beauties are worthy of stringing on a necklace.

During a recent visit to the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore, where I celebrated my fiftieth birthday, it occurred to me that collecting beach stones is a bit like crafting a life: You have to remain grounded and focused, yet always open to new possibilities. 

For starters, you need deep pockets to collect your bounty. And you must begin the quest believing you'll be rewarded with more than you bargained for. If you focus solely on the obvious - Petoskey stones, for instance - you might miss the other jewels of the lake.

In my search for something rare or perfect, I've nearly overlooked more humble specimens of beauty and character. As every seasoned beachcomber knows, the rippling water teases like a mirage, making it hard to see things as they really are. I've rescued many stones that looked tempting under water, but were lackluster when they dried in the sun. Some were merely pieces of beach glass. 

Selecting beach stones, in fact, is a bit like choosing what's essential in life: friends, partners, schools, a career path, a faith community, and a place (or two) to call home. It's wise to make these choices slowly and carefully; to consider what feels right, lasting, and true. As the cliché goes, it's possible to have too much of a good thing -- and beach stones are no exception. I always end up with too many, and have to edit my finds to an exemplary few. Otherwise, I'd need a gravel truck to haul them back to Detroit.

This is a lesson I need to apply at home, too.

I tend to hang on to some things longer than I should -- outdated clothes and shoes, grudges, bad ideas, hairstyles, broken tools, receipts, and stale opinions. Likewise, over the years I've tolerated too many things I should have protested: ridiculous TV shows, junk food, unfair wages, and degrading articles in women's magazines.

As Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes in her elegant memoir of a summer sabbatical, Gift from the Sea : "One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much." 

Wandering the shore in the afternoon of my own life, I ask myself: What's really essential now?

How much of what I buy do I really need? How can I make better use of my time and the blessings I've been given? How many "roles" have I outgrown, now that my son is in college and my vocation has changed? Whose script am I living?

Collecting beach stones, I'm reminded that the second half of life offers the freedom to choose again - to polish, edit, refine, and reconsider.

Once again, I empty my pockets before returning home.

Part of this essay was excerpted from Cindy La Ferle's essay collection, Writing Home (Hearth Stone Books; 2005), now available in bookstores. For more information visit Cindy's Home Office at www.laferle.com or write cindy@laferle.com.