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Dressed in the style of the sixties, seven young men and women had taken over a stretch of pavement and were creating a circular design the size of my living room out of thousands of sea shells. As I watched, more and more shapes and patterns came to the surface. The signs of the zodiac were being created in an intricate and interwoven design. The word “welcome” was repeated in the outermost circle in a dozen languages. In the centre, children placed their palms face down for their outline to be drawn and filled in with shells. Hands in the shape of shells. Shells in the shape of shells. The day was warm. There was no conversation from the Shell People. They had been working for hours and had many more to do before the design would be finished.. I edged closer to the front of the crowd. With each carefully laid shell, the picture was growing slowly like a jig saw puzzle. Murmurs of appreciation rose from the onlookers and children tiptoed to the centre with coins. Suddenly out of nowhere the peace was destroyed when a group of young men broke through and stamped with cruel footsteps through the delicately worked design, grinding their boots and kicking out in every direction. The crowd parted to let them pass and they were lost in the milling throngs of Grafton Street, the sound of splintered broken shells punctuated the silence that fell over us. This silence swiftly turned to anger which swirled around us like the whorls in the shell pattern. We stood paralyzed with helplessness, our hearts bursting for revenge. And then, one of the Shell People moved from his position of silence on the pavement. He began to pick up the scattered shells. “Some people,” he said “like to destroy beautiful things”. The others rose to their feet and followed his lead. His words acted like a catalyst on the crowd. Anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. It evaporated in the air above our heads and left us stunned with the intensity of our emotions. One by one, we went to the aid of the Shell People. We placed the scattered shells near their silently working hands. Children ran to gather handfuls. The Shell People smiled their thanks. Later that day when I returned to the top of Grafton Street, the picture was complete. . It was a shining complex beautiful thing which seemed to shimmer in the late afternoon sunlight. Tiny pink and white pebbles filled the gaps of grey pavement between each pattern. The Shell People sat around the edges of their design, resting and talking quietly together. I watched them for a while. I’ll never forget that day at the top of Grafton Street and I’ll never forget those gentle Shell People and the glimpse they gave me into the darkness and brightness of the human soul.
Maeve Edwards |