urchin love

A long time ago,

in a galaxy far,
far
away,

I was a child.

Okay, it was only about 30 years ago, but the galaxy was Ireland and you have to admit that Ireland in the 1970s is a whole other world from the outer ring of Washington, D.C., circa 21st century.

But I couldn't imagine a more wonderful place to be a child. As the only child to my parents I was the odd one in the family, but there was no safer place for a loner child to be alone. I spent hours and hours walking the shoreline, climbing the wreck, and collecting urchin shells by the score.

I don't know what it is about the husk of the urchin: the delicate, vulnerable shell, woefully unable to protect anything anymore. Perhaps it's the delicate shades of lavendar and sorrow urchin shells come to shore in, perhaps that's why I love lavendar. Perhaps it's their dichotomy - like a hen's egg they are both incredibly strong and incredibly fragile, their colour is the colour of soft chalk or tinted marshmallows, but their texture is rough and solid like an oyster's shell.

My urchin shells are still in storage from our move - carefully wrapped in tissue paper, packed in a cardboard tube and hiding from the light of day.

I don't feel so bad about that now, though, now that Ploust has entered my world. A few clicks away, at any time, I can find the joy of an urchin shell - I may not have the tactile pleasure of holding one, but I can look and remember. And perhaps one day, I'll unpack mine long enough to pack one off to another shore where it can be turned into a necklace just for me.

Enjoy!