A shard of glass

On the counter in my bathroom sits a piece of glass. The ocean handled it roughly, dulling every sharp surface, changing a dangerous item into a thing of beauty. My granny called this swishes glass, but most people correct me, oh you mean sea glass? No. It will always be swished glass to me. But you are welcome to call it anything.

The piece on my counter is white. Though I suppose it once was clear glass.  When we were young, we sought out the rare colors, blues and reds. But green always seemed most jewel like to me.

Tonight, the constant waves of thoughts about moving and home repairs and finances was overwhelming me. I felt subsumed in a vast ocean of details, essential and not, in my power and not. And then I saw the glass. Maybe these waves will soften my edges if I allow it. Maybe the grains of irritation will cause shifts and changes. And maybe, just maybe this is how strength and beauty are built.