Feet in Sand, Rosary in Hand
A liminal flicker
On day two, I thought about not doing it. About not taking the morning walk, committed to days prior with new resolve.
For three months, I’ve had the fortune and privilege to rent a place 200 yards from the beach. It’s the closest I’ve ever been for this long. Halfway through the lease, I confided in a friend how I felt like I was squandering the opportunity to get my feet in the sand, everyday. It’d been on my habit tracker app since I moved in, unchecked.
“Goooooooood morning,” her text read. “Reminder to go on your morning walk—you’ll love it.”
You’ll love it.
That’s what I needed to hear.
I reached for the rosary a colleague-turned-friend hand-beaded for me several years ago. Another practice I’ve been holding as something I desire to do daily, but rarely prioritize. When I do, it feels like meditation. Like mantra. Like devotion. And I love that, too.
The walk
The sand was cold and smooth between my toes. A welcomed opposite from the warm, pokey asphalt paving the one-way road I took to get there.
Waves on this stretch of beach break in barrels super close to shore. They were monstrous that morning, churning white in between the crashing, sets separated by glassy sea water.
A clear sky, and the light low. Not many people out yet. The morning time that I relish. Still and slow, like the world waking from a dream, not yet distracted by the day’s demands. Young bodies in tiny bikinis and topless washboard bellies would soon romp about, finally warm enough for near-nakedness. The outside no longer deceiving, no longer winter masquerading as summer, with frigid air no match for the sun.
The prayer
It was a Tuesday, so the Sorrowful Mysteries were my focus. After each decade of Hail Marys, I pulled a tattered and torn rosary guide from my pocket and read the “Fruit of the mystery” for the next set of prayers, moving from sorrow for sin, to purity, to courage, to patience, to perseverance.
It takes about 25 minutes for my fingers to complete the loop. A perfect timer for the walk, pacing my steps, deciding my turnaround.
Nearing the end, I came parallel to the beach entrance. This was right before the last and final prayer, Salve Regina. My ultimate, favorite.
It was then, I was called, by name.
The magic
Sprawled across a huge piece of driftwood in charcoal letters were, “AMY + WEST <3 2025.”
My fantasy heart fluttered. Will I meet a soulmate called West this year and fall madly in love?
That’d be too obvious. These signs are often riddles, not at first what they seem. Maybe I’d find a clue on the cardinal direction in my symbol book.
I made my barefoot way back to my place. I have this habit I want to break, of looking down at the ground when I walk so as not to trip and fall. The strain in my neck told me I was doing it again and I immediately corrected with an upward thrust of my head, eyes landing on house number 111.
A few steps further and on the rearview of a well-loved van I spotted a doll-sized pink tutu dress, draped over a miniature hanger.
The meaning
The symbol book trail led nowhere.
Medicine Eagle, a teacher of mine for a time, one day shared the meaning of each of the four directions. I held my breath as I scrolled through my phone, hoping to find where I’d notated his wisdom.
There it was.
“West. Water, divine love, and blood. The heartbeat and perfection of life, regardless of appearances. I am the unconditional love of life, and rhythm of the tide, and shadows and light, and time and space, wherever.”
111. The number made itself known in a Santa Cruz bowling ally with mom. Our wide eyes locked after I bowled this number two games in a row. Three days after our visit ended, I came across a photo on Substack of an opened book, to page 111, where the content read, “Just because it’s taking time doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”
Four days from seeing the pink tutu, I would post the story, with the poem, with the charcoal ballerina drawing.
So what’s the meaning of it all?
I have no fucking idea exactly.
But it’s got to mean something.
Maybe it means I’m staying present. It means I’m paying attention. It means I’m having a conversation with something beyond me. It means that something beyond me, sees me. Knows exactly how to make me notice, to make me smile, to make me keep, fucking, going.
This did all happen on the morning of the first formal class of a master’s program I’ve enrolled in. Going back to school while working full time has had me wondering if I can actually do it. And do it well.
Maybe, when my faith falters, I’ll look back at the day that started with not wanting to get my feet in the sand, rosary in hand.
When I was reminded I’d love it.
Reminded of courage, patience, and perseverance.
Reminded life is perfect just as it is and even though I can’t see it—whatever it is—it’s still happening.
Reminded that we’ll dance for forever amongst falling stars, long after the lid closes.
Maybe it means I’ll remember.
> A liminal flicker: This practice of noticing and notating is part of the four Rs making inner work feel more like ritual than routine. Magic is calling in your own life. Are you staying open to recognize, reflect, and remember?