The Short Life of My Perfect Sand Dollar

I am lost. I am somewhere in the midst of a dream. I turn to the left side of the bed that I share with my mom. My imagination keeps the dream’s wheels turning over and over until I feel as if I cannot escape. It feels like forever, but in reality, only a few minutes pass before the alarm rings. Last night, I was determined to find the perfect sand dollar on the beaches of Marco Island in Florida. My ebullient attitude had waned two days ago when I lost the small sand dollar my dad had found on the Sailing and Shelling trip the resort offered. Today would be my day to redeem my loss, but walking on the beach beneath the resort. My simple strategy was to be the first person on the beach, early in the morning before the sun had risen. 6:22–yes, I’m very obsessed with precise timing–seemed like the perfect time to awaken. This is when the alarm rang.

Quickly, my family dressed in casual clothing. The moon with still high in the air, leaving a mysterious feeling of uncomfort. I expected a slight breeze in the currents of air and the water to be on the cooler side of the average temperature in the Gulf. I grabbed a plastic bag for the shells I would find, as they are delicate and bountiful.

Water lapped onto my toes. I stood in the Gulf, rinsing my sandy flip-flops with the salty water. I glared at the moon overhead, its brilliance and its gloom. I began to walk, subtly glancing in the vicinity close to my feet for sand dollars buried deep within the sand. Florida fighting conchs were sprinkled along the wet beach, the sea imbricating the sand with disorganized squiggly lines. Mom’s erudite knowledge of shelling on travelers destinations lead her to walk rapidly, aiming for the curve on the beach where tide pools may form, ignoring the miniscule shells that were drawn from the sea, scattered before our resort.

Starfish from the tide pool

8:00. The sun has began to rise, its thin rays beaming light upon the sandy beach, trailing dark shadows behind figures. We stand where the land begins to curve inward. Tide pools have formed and one narrow strip of beach is unearthed with the receding line of water. I wade clumsily through the tide pool, water pulling my legs downwards. I begin to search around the tide pool, observing starfish of all shapes and sizes, purplish sea urchins, hiding away from the billowing waves of the Gulf, and an affluence of miniature conch shells with creatures inside. The glistening of the rising sun casts a flash of brightness on the surfaces of the rippling water. This glistening was all I needed to spot my first, perfect sand dollar of the day.

Eagerly, I snatched the sand dollar from the sand bed, almost as fast as seagull dives for fish. Unsure I was seeing things correctly, I held it up towards the sun. I observed the smooth texture, almost perfect circle shape and a brilliant shade of snow white, not the least bit corrugated. My perfect sand dollar.

“Daddy! Daddy!” I shouted, holding the sand dollar triumphantly in the air, “I found a sand dollar!” I ran towards Dad standing on the protruding strip of land farther from the shore. I showed him my treasure, and he grinned.

My sand dollar, resembling one found in the store!

“Yeah, that’s pretty perfect. It’s so white.” Directly after, I spotted another sand dollar. This one was different, covered in barnacles and tinted a reddish hue. It was chipped around the edges, however it was larger than my previous sand dollar. Then my dad spotted his first sand dollar sand dollar in our vicinity, pristine in shape and size, just tinted grey and yellow instead of white. My mom found three sand dollars in addition. In total we had six sand dollars. I tossed the one I had found with the barnacles into the Gulf.

It took around 40 minutes to walk back to the resort–a much briefer time than what we walked to reach the tidepool–as we were satiated with our finds, not stopping to search for more. I chattered with Mom and Dad. My next blog post should be called “how to find the perfect sand dollar,” as I had definitely found one that satisfied my taste. My blog post would run somewhat like this:

1. Go to Naples.
2. Stay at the Mariott
3. Walk two miles along the beach to the bend in the shore.
4. Find sand dollars

The sun rose steadily, slowly creeping above the queue of resorts lined up along the shore. I purposefully carried the sand dollars in my left hand, feeling their weight and observing their shapes individually, mesmerized by their uniqueness. My conclusion, the sand dollar I had found seemed to resemble ones sold in a shell store the most. I couldn’t stop touching it, the soft curves of the edge, the delicate mount in the center, its flatness and the subtle lines of the star in the middle.

“After you finish eating, Ava, you’re only duty is to pack the shells we found while I pack the clothes.” Mom said to me during breakfast. It was our last day on Marco Island. Checkout was at 11:00 A.M. I nodded, excited to finally exhibit all of today’s and yesterday’s shell findings.

On the balcony, I grabbed all three bags of shells. I poured them onto the deck. What conquered the floor of the balcony was a wide range of scallops, conchs, murex, sand dollars and others I cannot even name. Proudly, I wrapped the sand dollars into the mesh shelling bag I owned. Next, I sorted the colossal pile of shells into one’s I would keep and one’s I would toss. Finally, I sorted them into the bucket I would use to take them home. This shelling bucket was not large enough, so I supplemented the insufficient space with a plastic bag. I threw the small conch shells, a couple murex and scallops into the bucket and placed the sand dollars on top, just below the lid. I aligned the lid with the rim of the bucket and pressed down on the edge to snap the two pieces together. The lid wouldn’t quite fit. The pile of shells inside was too high. I dumped some shells out, placed the sand dollars back in the bucket and closed the lid. The lid still didn’t close flatly, so I pushed down on the edges. It sealed shut, but there was a small mound under the lid, instead of being flat. I threw the remaining shells into the plastic bag. I walked into the hotel room proudly. I imagined the places I could hang my sand dollars or the locations where I would store them. It was then that I remembered that my mom had found one other small and insignificant sand dollar yesterday and it was lying on the counter near the front door. I grabbed the remaining sand dollar and walked across the room, out onto the balcony and opened the lid to my shelling bucket to place this sand dollar with the others I had wrapped in mesh. My heart broke at this sight.

I cannot describe what I was feeling. I lifted the mesh, and peeked into the bag where the sand dollars lay in pieces. Before unwrapping the mesh, I had seen broken pieces of sand dollar. These broken pieces were white. Perfectly white. Snow white. I knew my perfect sand dollar had broke, but this whole time, I was hoping it wasn’t mine. I kept thinking, how is this even possible? I could feel the heat come to my eyes, and my trembling fingers pick at the remaining pieces of the shell I had found. They were shattered, and I couldn’t piece them together. Where had science gone? In school I just learned about tension and compression! I realized, in retrospect, that when I had pressed down on the lid to close the bucket, I had put compression and tension on the sand dollars I had placed directly beneath the lid!! My head felt dizzy and I felt tears commencing to well into my blinking eyes. Too stunned, I thought, so much for a blog post called “How to find a sand dollar.” More like “How to Keep Your Sand Dollar Intact.”

My sand dollar broken into pieces. Preservation.

From this experience, I have learned that finding the sand dollar had made my day. It was the most important part of this experience, that glorious feeling success. I cried after I found I had destroyed my perfect sand dollar. I have also learned that like anything else you find or do in life, you have to preserve it. I cannot expect success to last if I waste it, forsake it, or forget about it. I cannot expect life to last if I do not preserve my health, my budget or my basic expectations. I welcome preservation into my life with open arms.

The Meaning Christmas

It has finally come to my attention the true meaning of Christmas. I am thirteen. It took thirteen years to learn that Christmas was the birthdate of Jesus Christ. Christmas has always been a time to celebrate Winter, the holidays, Santa Claus and most importantly, getting gifts. During past years (and current ones), I’ve noticed that most public places hang ornaments and decorate Christmas trees. Malls even invite men to dress up as Santas. I remember waiting in line for one hour near December 25 every year for a picture with Santa.

Recently, I was walking in Copley Square when something caught my eye. Under the towering, blue, reflective John Hancock, was a menorah. I paused in my step. A menorah? I reflected through all my years wandering in public places during Christmas season. I concluded that I rarely encountered other decorations or cultures displayed besides Christian.

Why? I believe that dominant culture has greatly impacted the attention towards Christmas. What strikes me most, is the real significance behind Christmas. Cultural exaggerations and religious changes have lead many to interpret Christmas against its own meaning. This shows how our unselfconscious society can be. We have taken a once religious holiday and nudged children towards gifts and a time to celebrate a character from the North Pole.

Curiously, I followed some statistics of Christianity in the U.S. The article I read stated that 80% Americans are Christian. Out of those 80%, 93% said they celebrate Christmas, leaving 13% non-Christian practitioners who celebrate Christmas (read article link below for more information!). World wise, only 32% are Christian and therefore celebrate Christmas. I find these statistics very interesting. It amazes me how dominant one culture can be so that (a) other cultures are often forgotten and (b) people of no religion or a different religions choose to celebrate Christmas over another holiday. Truthfully, my family does not practice a religion, yet we are drawn like magnets, towards Christmas and Easter. Also, why is there a ‘Winter Break’ for Christmas, not one for other non-Christian holidays? I believe this holiday season should be one of diversity and recognition towards the other 68% of religions in the shadows.

http://www.reindeerland.org/christmas-traditions/what-percentage-of-the-world-celebrates-christmas.htm

The Absolutely True Diary of A Part-Time Indian Essay

The Absolutely True Diary of A Part-Time Indian, is a down-to-Earth novel, written by Sherman Alexie, I would nominate as the most stereotypical book I've ever read. One of the major themes within these light and racist pages is the discovering one's identity. Arnold, an Indian and the protagonist, who lives on the Spokane Reservation, compares his life to tribes of which he is a member. At the beginning of the novel, he believes that he can only belong to one tribe: either White, or Indian, after he transitions to an all-white school. His sudden epiphany allows him to see the beauty of belonging to more than ten different tribes.

"And the tribe of cartoonists.

And the tribe of chronic masturbators.

And the tribe of teenage boys.

And the tribe of small-town kids.

And the tribe of Pacific Northwesterners.

And the tribe of tortilla chips-and-salsa lovers.

And the tribe of poverty.

And the tribe of funeral-goers.

And the tribe of beloved sons.

And the tribe of boys who really missed their best friends." (Alexie, 217).

Arnold has a realization of belonging. Our English assignment was to write about a tribe that we feel we belong to, in depth. Here's my essay:

Life’s Conceptual Messengers

We are all given a room at birth. The darkness in these corners makes it seems desolate and unfulfilling. You can not see anything. You can change that. The resolution to bringing light into the room is by trying something new, improving your perspective of the world, or discovering something about your identity. Tribes are the windows to someone’s life. They bring an unterminating amount of light into your dark room. They create areas of realization that further one’s comprehension of their family, or the world. These groups aggregate with other groups, forming stronger relationships, or they may deviate themselves from the majority, creating a separate group that does not fail to sparkle just as brightly. One person may consider themselves a member of ten tribes while another may belong to more than one hundred. Tribes can bring comfort, joy, austerity, and even dispute. No two people will have the same tribes. This makes everyone unique from each other. It encourages people to discover their identity and learn how different, yet similar they are to others. Varying tribes results in varying identities which allows space for everyone to shine.

The impact of being a member of the abstract artist tribe has inspired a major change in my paradigm of life by creating a more positive mindset. Many artists are observant. They notice the world, scrutinizing its details. Abstract artists take this asset another step farther. Having a love for abstractness has helped me develop a sense of vigilance towards beauties within life, beyond those placed before me. It has built a positivity within my mind, teaching me that I drive the answers and outcomes I want. My future depends on my present reactions.

Last year, I was pondering why fate had created such a difficult road for me. Why was I struggling with the Short Answer Responses (SAR) writing in Language Arts? My life sucked, how could I get such a low math test grade after all my hard work? Why was the world turning on me? These questions all relate to the struggles of understanding my individual faculty to succeed in life. I had gained strength and knowledge of creativity from being an abstract artist so I was able to view these back setting wonders positively, as an opportunity to open another window, and drive the answers I wanted. I could have drove my answers into a tree or off a cliff. Instead, my quality of being abstract, lead me to see the positive side to the situation and conquer my beliefs of failure.

Earlier this month, I joined a social change art group. We discussed thought provoking messages that we noticed were condoned throughout the community. One idea we addressed was the idea of body image. We accumulated ideas for portraying this uncomfortable topic in a discreet, yet powerful manner. The final painting was abstract, which on the outside, seemed depthless and shallow, but with meticulous examination and clarity of mindset, was a work of social progression that addressed the pain others felt in a lighter form. The brainstorming and creation of the painting taught me to display my abstract perspective to the world by showing courage, and taking the initiative to educate and bring awareness. I am telling of an inspiration. 

I am oblivious to my future. I do not know where I will drive my life. I do not know how big the windows in my room will develop. I do not know how much light they will bring. Regardless of where I end up in life–in the rubbles or on the hilltops–I predict that my relationship with art will not wane. In my dark room, tribes will perpetually grow and others will wither. However, the abstract art windows in my dim room will be hard to shut because they have not only changed my competence to observe the world from different eyes, it has metamorphosed my outlook in life. Abstract art has taught me to be a leader, constantly looking for ways to contribute advice to an ever growing society. Abstract art has helped me see beauty in often foreign corners of the world. Abstract artists are life’s conceptual messengers. 

What tribes do you believe you belong to? Why?

What do tribes mean to you in general? 

How have your tribes shaped your personality? 

From A Child To A Teen… the Journey In Between

I am officially a teen. This means I am 13 years old. This could also be interpreted as a decade and three years. Regardless of what you call “13,” I am a teenager, I have lived a short life, and I have developed into a slightly better person. I have grown from mistakes, I have been taught to treat life as a privilege–not a right–, and I have developed some unique personality traits. As an official teenager for the next seven years, I have goals that I aspire to achieve [read 23 for more ideas], and I continue to reflect, express and cherish the memories and lessons I have learned from childhood.

View the world with a clear paradigm. We often take instances or rumors for granted. I have learned to enter every situation with a clear paradigm so that I can fully saturate the positivity within every item of life.

I remember a summer, when I was eight years old. I went to an acting camp. I was not the least bit excited, simply attending because my friend had invited me. The sun was hot outside the car, it’s yellow rays beating down upon the Earth. I stepped out of the car. I stared at the run down building, noticing that between, every crack in the bricks, one or two vines emerged. The windows were dusty and placed high upon the wall. The unwelcoming front door was solid metal. There were no real parking spaces. Cars resolved this issue by parking in straight lines along the woody creek running besides the building. Weeds and shrubs grew sporadically along the creeks edge. Camp? This is called CAMP? I prepared for a run down interior and old, country-like counselors. I took my dad’s hand and we sauntered to the metal door that had no windows and a rusted handle. I pulled the door open. A squeak gave out. The room inside was artificially lit, with lights that emitted too much whiteness. The walls were constructed of black wooden planks. This is going to be the longest week of the summer…I thought.

Each day pulled my judgemental statement through the door to enjoyment. Lunch was eaten besides the creek, while we calmly discussed the details of our play. On Friday, three performances commenced in the small theater that had wooden benches for seats. Eagerly, I watched each play in awe. The costumes, the acting and the scenery aggregated, bringing an only imaginable stories of vampires and talking mushrooms, to life. Later that summer, I registered for an additional week.

This experience has helped me view the world with a clear paradigm. I have learned to enter each situation with a clear head, so I avoid falling into misleading pits that will hinder me from receiving the full benefit of life.

When appropriate, give people a second chance. We are humans. Humans occasionally fail. I believe that offering second chances to redeem oneself is as important as giving the first. Second chances allow for mistakes to be corrected. Second chances allow for room to grow. Second chances allow people to feel comfortable taking risks.

This aspect came to my attention when I was around nine or ten. I watched a movie called Second Chances. A primitive synopsis of the plot would encompass a girl whose father has passed in a car accident, leaving the girl with a broken leg. She and her mother move to a small trailer next to a horse farm. Recalcitrant and depressed, the girl explores the horse stable. She tames one of the wildest horses of the stable and some men working there offer her riding lessons once her leg heals. In the end, she conquers her fear of “popular” girls and is able to compete in a regional rodeo. The writer most likely called this movie Second Chances, as to show that although there will be setbacks encountered in life, many incidents will give us a second chance to start over. Within this story, I was able to clearly see how this brave, young girl was able to withstand with a boulder coming at her shoulders while moving forward in life. She was given a second chance to rebuild a similar life to what she had once lost.

Quite recently, somebody said to me, “You know Ava, the only reason I hate you is because you can do thing I know I’ll never be able to do.” This sentence caught my attention. For years, the entire grade has seen this person as ‘sanctimonious’, ‘too much ego’, ‘annoying,’ ‘self-centered.’ I cannot deny my agreement with these adjectives. This person always seems to be on your tail, correcting every piece of information you say. This person thought they were the best at everything life could offer. The worst part was that this person believed that they were ‘perfect.’ Whenever someone would offer advice, they would bat it away, thinking they had no room for improvement. They seemed to find no light on Earth. The person hated the world, and believed the world loved him back. For years, I’ve been vexed by this behavior and finally, I cut the ribbon. I asked them to read this blog. The next day, they had clearly seen something different. They began to recognize the skills others possess. For once, they seemed inspired by someone other than themselves! Here’s the proof. When I asked this person that following day whether they had read my blog, the answer was “Yes. It was very good. Deep thoughts. You know Ava, the only reason I hate you is because you can do thing I know I’ll never be able to do.” The person didn’t say anything else about the writing, however, it was apparent that something sparked within his mind. He recognized he was not the best at everything. Something changed. You see the power in giving second chances? People change.

Proactivity, is responsibility. When I was eleven, I received a book called The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens, by Sean Covey. Wow, the first chapter blew me apart. The first habit addressed was “Be Proactive.” They described it as the root of life. I completely agree.

Proactivity means “you happen to the world, don’t let the world happen to you.” It means developing the skill of responsibility. If you know you are struggling with an English essay, a proactive person would conference with the teacher. The opposite of a proactive person is a reactive person. They blame the world for happening to them. They act as poor envisioned pilots who drive their planes into mountains. However, given second chances, they can reconstruct their outlook in life and someday, fly into the sky once more.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. I remember being a little girl in first grade, who was fairly advanced in her math class. I already knowing the multiplication tables when average first graders were learning addition and subtraction. I remember proudly raising my hand each time the teacher asked a question. Sometimes I would be the only hand raised, other times, there would be a few more. One day, doing a worksheet, I stumbled, unsure of how to solve a problem. The blanked out feeling, where you had tackle the whole page swiftly except for the last question shocked me. I tried to solve the problem using any strategy I could make up in my head. I did not know how to solve the problem, so I ended up sitting at my desk, pretending to do work. When the teacher walked around, offering help, only then did I accept the guidance.

It took me a while to fully understand that asking for help is not a sign of “dumbness.” I guess I had only avoided asking for help because I was afraid the teacher would think less of my ability. After transitioning schools, my new teacher told me that often it is the successful students who ask for help because they care enough to improve. I have learned that if you do not ask for help, the questions you have will build up throughout life, and sooner or later, you will find yourself in a very confused position.

Be yourself. I remember following one of my friends. Whenever she did something, I would follow, thinking that because she did something, others would not make fun of me for doing the same. If she told me to do something, I would say yes without a second thought. I used to hate disagreeing with something. I remember in second grade, someone in my class had excluded someone else from playing the game of tag. Alarm bells went off in my head as the soon as the words “Well, we’re kind of in the middle of the game. You can’t join” popped out of their mouth. I knew what that person had said was wrong. I just did not say anything because I was timorous, and too shy to stand up for what I believed was right. I thought that I would be excluded from tag if I said anything.

Five years later, I cherish the competence of expression. I love being able to express what I feel and do what I want. I was being manipulated before, now I feel more liberty. I have learned to be myself. The world is such a large space, with many areas for improvement. The world needs diversity of personality to bring about these changes. This is where we need to be ourselves. 

"It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light." Aristotle Onassis

Days have passed since I have posted on my blog. I have not felt an inspiration. I have not encountered a story to be told. I have not felt much pain, (with an exception for the humongous load of homework, piled after Thanksgiving break.) If I were to reveal one fact about myself, I would tell of my reliance on inspiration.

So I chased after inspiration. I am often advised not to chase after things desired, however I imminently felt the vacancy within my purpose of life. I've found a quote. This is my weekly inspiration.

"It is during our darkest moments that me must focus to see the light." –Aristotle Onassis.

Aristotle Onassis was a Greek businessman. Born in 1906, he owned one of world’s largest, private-owned shipping fleet, making millions of dollars. His quote suggests that success is partially obtained by having a positive outlook. It can shape an ordinary life into something extraordinary. Positivity can be defined as viewing a negative impacts’ productive side. During a difficult time in one’s life, it is important to remain internally strong. We are all humans, and setbacks are a natural part of life. I believe that a life is never lived without an infinite number of setbacks. Throughout this journey, everyone will fall into a pit. Everyone will feel like withering. Even through all these troubles, one’s recovery state is most valued. If I had known this conception prior to my science quiz, maybe I would not have let it destruct my state of mind.

The last question of the science quiz. A monkey holding a beam with his two outstretched arms dangling in the air is demonstrating which force? Rope tension. I stopped in my tracks. Was it rope tension. On a recent homework assignment I had seen a similar question. My mind quivered, my fingers twitched. I felt every anxious muscle within me freeze. I answered applied force. It looked correct. The monkey was pulling on the bar, by definition applied force. Turning in my quiz, and meticulous thinking, I knew rope tension was the correct answer. My mind wanted to rebuff this answer. I could not focus on anything for the rest of the day. The ground felt like it was slipping beneath my feet. I had hoped to get a 20/20. This mistake buried me deep inside a black pit, sending an invisible misty, black fog in front of my eyes. It created a capricious path for me in the following hours. It temporarily hindered my outlook in life.

three days later…

Now that I am able to "see the light" of the setback: It will be difficult to make the same mistake.