They don’t move.
They don’t sparkle.
They aren’t beautiful—not in the obvious ways.
But I can’t stop looking at them.
Barnacles.
Clustered like secrets on the undersides of docks. Crusted onto the backs of sea turtles. Clinging to driftwood, crab traps, and hulls like old, stubborn thoughts. I’ve scraped them off boats, stepped on them accidentally (and regretted it), and studied them in tide pools where they sit sealed shut like they’re holding their breath.
And maybe they are.
What Doesn’t Move, Still Matters
Barnacles live a life of stillness—stuck in place after a wild, floating beginning. Most people don’t know this, but barnacles start out free-swimming, like tiny drifting stars in the water. Then one day, they glue themselves down. Permanently.
They find a surface, something solid, something they trust, and they stay.
It sounds like a kind of devotion, doesn’t it?
Once anchored, they build walls. Hard ones. Shells of limestone. But inside, they’re still soft. Alive. Reaching. When the tide returns, they open—not wide, just enough—and extend feathery legs to sweep food from the current.
No chasing.
No swimming.
No noise.
They survive by trusting the sea will bring what they need.
The Poetry of Patience
There’s something deeply moving to me about that.
In a world that tells us to hustle, to constantly change, to be louder and faster and more impressive, the barnacle does none of that. It finds one small spot, and it blooms in stillness. It builds a life, layer by layer. It waits for the tide. It trusts what’s coming.
As a writer, I need that reminder more often than I’d like to admit.
Some stories take shape slowly. Some ideas cling to the back of your mind for years before they’re ready. Some pages feel empty for weeks—until the tide finally rolls in and feeds you.
Maybe that’s what barnacles teach best: the art of staying. Of believing that something good will find you, even if you’re not moving.
Tiny, Tough, and Honest
Of course, they’re not glamorous. They won’t make a postcard. But barnacles are strong. Sharp. Stubborn. And still here.
I think that counts for something.
So the next time you’re near a dock or a seawall, take a closer look. The still ones are there, quietly living their strange, perfect lives.
And if you’re feeling stuck?
You’re not alone.
~ L.S.