Crustacean Debris

      You can use your toes as divining rods --
You know, those magical Y-shaped branches alleged to be able to detect a water source --
      Yes, you can use your toes as divining rods
            In the early morning surf at Wildwood Crest
To search for sunken conch shells,
      Three-quarters-covered with wet sand
            In the shallows formed by receding tides.

      Ah, June, July, August at the Jersey beaches,
            Sandy Hook to Cape May,
They can be like distant Caribbean Island getaway destinations.

And further north along the Jersey coast,
      While the sun reddens and browns the bare tops of men's heads
Like a form of Holy Tonsure --
      You know, the ritual haircuts the monks proudly wear
As outward signs of prayerful commitment --
            Anyway, further north along the Jersey coast,
Years ago an Army Corps of Engineers "Beach Reclamation Project"
      Siphoned sand off the ocean floor a mile to five miles out,
            And pumped it onshore,
There to be spread by bulldozers to widen the beach.

Spewing forth from the pipe the sand looked as though
      It had never seen the light of day,
Yet like an old wooden house that shines
            From a new coat of paint after a refreshing powerwash,
The sun bleached clean the years of life spent beneath the sea
      Like the detective's powder that reveals fingerprints.
The solar rays reflect off millions of fragments
      Of broken anthropod shells and discarded gems
That had perhaps laid under that water for millenia uncounted.

            And now with your toes as divining rods,
You can sift through the various specimens of crustacean debris
      As though they were as valuable as diamonds,
And imagine hundreds of stories from over the ages
      When this Indian canoe or that ship wreck,
            This fishing trawler or that Navy sub,
      This clam or that crab,
            This mussel or that oyster,
Might have left their mark for the ages,
      Years and decades and even centuries ago,
            Millenia ago,
Now finally to be revealed too insightful beachcombers,
      Tonsured anthropod anthropologist sojourners of faith, hope and love,
Who are open enough to look closely enough
            At the raw materials of life's truly remarkable headline news,
And be creative about how best to incorporate the experience
                  In our own special individual
Army Corps of Engineers spirit, mind and body reclamation project.

                  Oh Dear Lord,
Mother Ocean and Father Sand and Spirit Surf,
      As we approach the intermission of the school year --
Because, in truth, the school year is year-round and life-long,
            Although the summer, ah, the glorious summer, is its own special learning station --
As we approach the summer of the school year,
      And look forward to, and prepare for, another Fall,
Open our mind's and our heart's and our soul's creativity
      As we remember that some of the
            Most important,
                  Most valuable,
Most enriching lessons that will be learned
      By children and adults, Fall through Spring,
Won't be taught in school classrooms,
            But rather will be detected by year-round divining rods
At learning stations more closely resembling Summer's best learning readiness zones
      Called child care centers and pools,
            Gymnasiums and fitness centers,
      Playgrounds, family swims and camps,
            Community youth theater and dance stages,
      Morning announcements and evening fire circles,
            Teen activities and senior citizen drop-in centers
      Baseball diamonds and soccer pitches,
            Catskill Mountain and Scout campouts, and 3,500 feet hikes,
      Street road races and walk-a-thons,
            Zoos, museums, aquarium and historic site field trips,
      Family vacations and Saturday day-treks to the beach,
            Fireworks on Independence Day, all proud and spectacular,
      Main Street parades, all tubas, trumpets and trombones,
            And first-light Taps off on a distant hill muffled only by the dew itself,
Worship services in a favorite cathedral or chapel,
                  A man-made structure, perhaps,
       Or a God-made outdoor tree canopy or seaside horizon, yes, yes,
Followed on alternate weekends by drowsy city park walks to that particular forgotten bench,
                  From which to try the divining rod on the Sunday New York Times,
                        And Papa Hemingway's best stories.

As we approach the Fall after a Summer full of divining rod days,
      As the leaves turn and the temperatures drop,
            And bathing suits and sunglasses
Give way to sweaters and cords,
      Let us remember how we used our toes as divining rods,
And now instead substitute our convictions as creative artist teachers and mentors,
      Sojourners and poets and dreamers,
            To assert our commitment to mission,
To reaffirm our belief in body, mind and spirit,
      Faith, hope and Love,
            And the greatest of these is love.

Yes, let us use our energies,
      Our infectious human laughter,
And our profound belief in play,
      To help our charges discover for themselves
The next part of themselves
            Just waiting to be unearthed,
Like those nearly sunken conch shells,
      Like that rich layer of crustacean debris,
Now sparkling like jewels in the bright sun,
            The whispered voice of the the Lord, his or her self,
Waiting for us decipher this blessing,
            This holy gift,
For we tonsured anthropod anthropologist sojourners of faith, hope and love,
      This crustacean debris.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 21, 2011