In the Sand

I started this week at the beach with eighteen mostly middle-aged, mostly like-minded women. For five days and four nights we lodged in a six-bedroom behemoth on Pensacola beach. On my second walk along the beach, I found a tiny sand dollar in the sand. It was miraculously unbroken, and finding it felt like a hello from mom, an imperfectly perfect twentieth woman for this group.

That hello from mom lifted my head out of a ten-day fallow period. Fallow because this has been a busy month so far. Fallow because I’m sorting out a challenging stretch of my novel. In other words, the fallow wasn’t writer’s block or unwillingness to show up. I was juggling a little extra, then, on the beach trip, more extras: extra voices, extra activities, extra food.

This fallow ten days didn’t feel fallow. They were overflowing with rest (I slept four 10-plus-hour nights last week), fellowship, heart-to-hearts, and some tears.

Writers fear fallow, but I’m learning to welcome it, to let the snows dust my mind and help me reimagine old ideas. I’m learning to enjoy the rest and trust the process when the winter comes. I still show up for my morning writing routines, but I don’t fret if I need to push away from the novel for a few days. The spring will come.

Fallow is not dissimilar to the pause from our daily life to visit a beach and just sit on it, toes in the sand, eyes on the horizon, ears filled with surf and seabird song. The experiences come home with us.

I slept with my sand dollar on my nightstand for two nights at the beach, then, on leaving day, packed it for the trip home. After I arrived home, I reached into the soft pocket to pull out my sand dollar, my hello from mom. All I found was sand.

I struggled for a bit over the loss, scolded myself for not being more careful when I packed it. I’m still parsing out lessons and messages, but, mostly, I’m reminded, life and relations are fragile and temporary. Finding a perfect sand dollar on a well-trod beach is a miracle in itself. I’m grateful I saw it before I stepped on it. I’m also grateful I slept next to that perfect gift from the sea for two nights.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025