Because I am a lucky person, my home – my life – is littered with sand dollars. They appear on the kitchen counter; in small containers meant to hold leftover food; on the porch table; on the side table; in the passenger door of the newer car; in the console of the older one. I collect them whenever I go to the beach, which is often, and though I try to leave them there, I almost never do.
Here, though, is the indulgent part, the detail that embarrasses me a bit: I have such ready access to sand dollars that I now tend to only take the perfect ones home. A decade ago, I would have gathered all that I could find, the pieces and the shards and the ones missing sections. Every once in a while, I still do. But mainly, now, in this too-rich life, I look for the ones without flaws, the ones where it’s possible to see the fine pointillism tattooed onto each near-white surface.
Some days, there are a million of those.
Slowly, surely, reverently, delightedly, I pick them up. I may discard some as soon as I discover their imperfections; other times, I claim them all, at least temporarily. I like the small ones best, the ones so tiny that they fit comfortably on the tip of my index finger. I like the big ones too though, and the ones that are gray, and the ones that have a scallop to their edge.
Then, when I can carry no more, when my hands and my pockets are full, I sort through my treasures. If there is a child nearby, or someone obviously engaged in the same activity (perhaps having less luck since they are trailing me), I will offer up some of my ridiculous bounty.
But more often than not, there is no one near. So I tuck the most beautiful ones away, ready to sprinkle them like breadcrumbs through the trails of my life. I leave the others behind, laying them someplace where another beachgoer might find them, convincing myself all the while that they are just as good, and only not quite for me.
The Wandering Introvert 