Speaker 1: Hello friends, come gather around for lessons on happy ground. With kindness in our hearts, we'll find our way and practice being brave every day. They're Rosado Little Lessons, fun adventures for our friends.

Speaker 2: Hello, friends. I am Ms. Amy, and tonight I have a question for you. What would you do if the first shell in your picture pointed the wrong way? You are standing on Buttonweed Causeway, where flat sand humps rise between two still pools. Under your feet, the ground is packed with tiny shell bits that click like dry rice. A row of buttonweed pods hangs overhead, each one round and hard as a wooden bead. At the far end of the causeway, one dark pool held the pale moon upside down. Beside that pool sat Crispin.

Crispin was a brown pelican with a long bill and a pouch that swung beneath it. He loved gathering shells from the shallow edge of Buttonweed Causeway. His webbed feet pressed broad prints into wet sand. Salt spray left pinprick dots along his pouch. He could smell crushed buttonweed stems, green and bitter near the roots. Crispin liked shells with ridges, shells with spots, and shells shaped like tiny spoons. He liked placing them in rows, then stepping back to see what the rows had become. “A shell knows where it wants to rest,” Crispin often said, “if I give it a good look.” Friends, Crispin had saved twelve pale shells for a shell dial. When the sun moved, its shadow would slide across the shells. Crispin wanted the dial to look neat from every side. He wanted each shell to point just right.

That morning, Crispin carried the first shell to a patch of sand with no shell scraps. It was long, flat, and marked with one dark brown line. He set it down. The pointed tip faced sideways. Crispin turned it once. Then twice. Its tip still faced sideways. His pouch gave a small swing beneath his bill. His webbed toes pressed deep, then deeper, into the sand. “If this first shell points wrong,” he murmured, “the whole dial will point wrong.” Friends, he stared until the brown line on the shell seemed to wiggle. He did not touch it for a long while. Shell bits clicked beneath the wind, and Crispin’s bill hung low. He had not begun his dial at all.

Crispin used his strongest skill first. He scooped the sideways shell into his pouch. Then he gathered every pale shell he had brought. One by one, he placed them on the sand. He lined their tips along a faint scratch in the ground. The first shell tipped left. He nudged it with the edge of his bill. It tipped right. Crispin moved the next shell closer. Its round end bumped the first. He moved it farther away. Now there was a gap that looked like a missing tooth. He scooped them up and began again. Friends, the sand near his feet soon held many bill marks. At last, Crispin saw what had stopped him. He was asking one shell to promise that every shell would be perfect. He sat beside the empty patch of sand, with his pouch against his neck.

Aven the mudskipper popped from the dark pool and landed beside a buttonweed root. Aven had a habit of tapping every edge he met with the tip of his tail. Tap, tap, tap went his tail on roots, shells, and dry mud. He never tapped the middle first. He tapped the edges. Aven looked at Crispin’s shells, then tapped the sideways one three times. “When the mud dries in cracks,” said Aven, “I tap each rim first. The rim shows me which bit of mud may hold.” He did not move a single shell. He only slipped back to the pool’s rim and tapped a patch of cracked mud. Friends, Crispin watched Aven’s tail. The sideways shell was not an order. It was an edge. Crispin lifted one foot from its deep print. His pouch stopped swinging.

Crispin set the sideways shell down again. This time, he did not turn it. He looked at its long brown line. Then he looked at the space beside its curved edge. He chose a second shell with a curve that fit near it. He lowered it from his bill, slowly, until it touched the sand. There was a thin gap between them. Crispin did not scoop them away. He placed a third shell beside the gap. Its pointed end faced out. The shape began to spread like marks from a stamp. Friends, Crispin walked around the growing dial. From one side, it looked uneven. From another side, the shells made a round rim. He placed the last pale shell near the first. Then the sun slid from behind a buttonweed pod, and a narrow shadow crept toward the dark brown line.

The shadow reached the sideways shell, then rested along its brown line. Crispin held very still. The shell had not ruined the dial. It had shown him where the dial could start. His pouch hung still beneath his bill as he saw the ring of shells around it. The gaps were not all the same. The tips did not all face one way. Yet each shell had a place because Crispin had noticed what came next. “A shell knows where it wants to rest,” Crispin said, “and I can learn by setting down the first one.” Friends, he walked around the dial once more. His feet left broad prints in the damp sand, but he did not rush to smooth them away. He had made room for a beginning that was real, not perfect.

"Crispin learned that day that a beginning does not have to be perfect to show you your next step." And friends, I think we all can start with what is in front of us, then let each next step teach us more.
"Thank you so much for listening today, friends. I am Ms. Amy, and remember - here at Rosado Little Lessons, every little story carries a big lesson. Until next time, look, place, and try again!"

Speaker 1: Our story's over. Hip hooray. Hope you learned something new today. So come on back and join the fun. More lessons for everyone. Rosado Little Lessons. See you next time, everyone.