Cultured Pearls

Pearls are my birthstone.  They’re beautiful.  But, ew, how we get them!  Tissue is injured by a fish attack or parasite, resulting in a secretion, which forms a cyst. This is repeated, covering the parasite with layer after layer of it. Voila! a pearl.  (And I think the round ones are formed inside gonads.   Now, that’s classy.)

But ignoring the slimy invertebrate, pearls really are lovely—and until the 20th century, they were few and far-between.  God’s kingdom is equated to this—a rare and precious find, retrieved from the ocean depths (all without scuba tanks!).  Heaven is a wonderful place!  I can’t wait for the Pearly Gates!  Sadly, I suppose this well-made point gets hidden in our time, amidst a plethora of cultured pearls.

When we think of cultured, we get images of fancy people—sophisticated, elegant, and refined frequenters of museums, galleries, and plays.  But, just like cultured pearls, they’re nothing more than glorified crops.  They’re farmed—by self-styled society snobs.

Today’s generation may have more synthetics and style, but it really hasn’t changed.  Instead of a vast array of individuality, much of modern culture is a cloistered cluster of clones.  All this technology and we’re no farther along than primitive tribes—where the establishment won’t listen, so the same errors are rehashed for generations.  People never learn to reason and discern deeper matters; our cities turn out millions who haven’t a single pearl of truth.  What the idiot boxes spit out these days may just as well be cast before swine.

Well, if today’s entry isn’t gross enough for you, I’ll toss in one more, dirty thought: I’ve always been a rather uncultured misfit.  I don’t like playing dress-up or makeup.  I’m a bumpkin.  Oh, I’ve learned to look the part, and to behave.  But sometimes I just want to be myself—which can be out of sync.

Now the irony: even I have had the audacity of thinking too highly of myself!  I, too, have been a cultured pearl.  Meh!

I guess all of us—in one way or another—are the just same: built layer, after layer, after layer, all covering some sort of nastiness at the center.

I’m just glad for the Great Scuba Diver who, with Mighty Resurrection Power, pried me out of that hard shell–and started polishing.

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