Cowries

On long walks along clean, untouched beaches, I started finding cowrie shells.

Most days. Sometimes right near the high-water line, sometimes half-buried in that wet sand where the light makes everything look freshly made. Small, glossy, perfect. A quiet gift from the sea.

After a few days it became a pattern. And once it became a pattern, it became a story.

“I’ll need to find one every day.”

That’s when it shifted.

What started as noticing turned into searching. Head down. Scanning. Walking in the “right” zones. The beach narrowed into a strip of sand I could control. I stopped really seeing the rest — the waves, dolphins, sea eagles, even the clouds that gave shelter from a scorching sun. All the other moving, living evidence of a world that doesn’t need my management.

I became efficient. Focused. And slightly tense — in that quiet way tension shows up when you’ve made something a requirement.

And the irony was obvious: before I was hunting for cowries, they just appeared. Not because they were appearing more, but because I was available to notice them. I was looking up. Taking it in. And then — there it was. At the right time. Not earned. Not forced. Not managed.

When I decided I “should” find one each day, it took something away. It turned a gift into a metric. A walk into a task. Presence into a small, private contract with myself.

Searching has a posture. It’s narrow. It’s pre-loaded. It has a target, and it quietly rejects anything that isn’t the target. Allowing has a different quality. There’s ease in it — and an alertness. You’re not passive. You’re available. You still notice. But you’re not trying to make the world confirm your story.

The cowries didn’t change. The beach didn’t change.

I did.

So I’ve been practising a small reset: head up. Wider gaze. Let the beach be the beach. Let the day be the day. And if a cowrie turns up, fine. If it doesn’t, also fine.

Because the real shift wasn’t about a shell.
It was what I traded away when I turned it into a must.

I traded a wide view for a narrow one. Ease for tension. Surprise for requirement.

And once you do that, you stop noticing what it’s costing — until you look up again.