The game of life is a game of boomerangs. Our thoughts, deeds and

Host: The night hung quiet over the coastline, its air thick with the hum of unseen tides. Far below the cliffs, the sea rolled endlessly — dark, reflective, ancient. The moon laid a thin sheet of silver over the water, shimmering like memory returning to its source.

At the edge of that cliff sat Jack, a small fire flickering beside him, its light warm against the wind. He was skipping stones into the waves — deliberate, rhythmic. Each stone vanished with a faint plunk, swallowed by the vastness.

Jeeny stood nearby, her hair tugged gently by the breeze, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that steamed into the cold. She watched the stones disappear, one by one, like moments or words you can’t take back.

In the sand between them, she had traced the evening’s meditation in slow, looping letters:

“The game of life is a game of boomerangs. Our thoughts, deeds, and words return to us sooner or later with astounding accuracy.” — Florence Scovel Shinn

Jeeny: “You know, when I first read that, I thought it was beautiful. Then I realized it was terrifying.”

Jack: “Yeah. The idea that nothing we send out ever really leaves us — that it’s all just circling, waiting to come back.”

Jeeny: “Like karma wearing a softer coat.”

Jack: “Or accountability disguised as poetry.”

Host: The wind shifted, tossing sparks from the fire into the dark. One flared bright and vanished — a small parable of cause and consequence.

Jeeny: “Do you believe it, though? That our thoughts really come back to us?”

Jack: “Maybe not literally. But every action shapes the air around us. You throw enough stones into the world, eventually you start living in the ripples.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying the universe has a memory.”

Jack: “Exactly. And it’s got perfect aim.”

Host: She smiled faintly, sipping her tea. The firelight danced across her face, catching in her eyes — eyes that had seen enough of life to know that poetry often hid precision.

Jeeny: “Florence Shinn wrote that in the 1920s, right? When mysticism and practicality were trying to make peace. I think she meant it as a warning — and a promise.”

Jack: “A warning for the careless, a promise for the kind.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The universe, as she saw it, isn’t cruel. It’s just accurate.”

Host: The ocean murmured, steady and eternal. Each wave sounded like a sentence finishing itself.

Jack: “But you know what scares me? Not the bad things coming back — the good ones we forget to send.”

Jeeny: “The kindnesses we never said?”

Jack: “The gratitude we swallowed. The apologies we rehearsed but never delivered.”

Jeeny: “They circle too, you know. Unspoken things have orbits. They just take longer to find their way home.”

Host: The flames cracked. Jeeny crouched and picked up a small stone, smooth and pale. She turned it over in her fingers before handing it to him.

Jeeny: “Every choice is like this. You can throw it with anger or care, but it’s still going to come back. The difference is in how it hits you.”

Jack: “You think forgiveness changes its trajectory?”

Jeeny: “It does. Forgiveness softens the return.”

Host: Jack turned the stone over once, twice, and then tossed it toward the surf. It skipped twice before disappearing into the black.

Jack: “Then what about people who send nothing? The ones who live numb, avoid feeling, avoid doing. What comes back to them?”

Jeeny: “Emptiness. The echo of their own silence.”

Jack: “That’s the cruelest accuracy of all.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the most merciful. It’s the universe saying, You still have time to speak.”

Host: The fire crackled louder for a moment, throwing orange light across their faces — the glow of introspection turned outward.

Jack: “You ever notice how people treat the word ‘karma’ like punishment? But Shinn’s version feels more... balanced. It’s not vengeance. It’s reflection.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world doesn’t judge; it mirrors. You don’t get what you deserve, you get what you’ve been giving.”

Jack: “So maybe the trick is learning to throw things worth catching.”

Jeeny: “And to stop mistaking luck for consequence.”

Host: The sea surged against the rocks below, the sound vast, unbroken. The moonlight stretched across it — silver, certain, silent.

Jeeny: “When I was younger, I thought the universe was random. Then I started noticing patterns — little returns. A kindness I’d forgotten about years ago showing up as mercy. A cruelty from my past coming back as a lesson.”

Jack: “It’s not magic. It’s momentum.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Life doesn’t erase — it accumulates. Everything we send out becomes part of what we’re standing on.”

Host: She placed her mug in the sand beside her, drawing a small spiral around it with her fingertip.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Florence was really saying? That life is an ongoing dialogue with yourself. Every word you throw out into the world is a letter addressed to the future you.”

Jack: “And eventually, the mail arrives.”

Jeeny: “With astounding accuracy.”

Host: Jack smiled, that rare kind of smile that carries both agreement and apology. He picked up another stone, this one jagged and dark.

Jack: “I guess that’s what conscience is — the sound of the boomerang coming back.”

Jeeny: “Or the chance to catch it before it hits.”

Host: A quiet laugh passed between them — light, knowing. The wind softened. The fire was lower now, its glow turned to embers.

Jeeny: “You know, we’re all throwing things constantly — words, glances, energy. The question is whether we’re doing it consciously.”

Jack: “Or carelessly.”

Jeeny: “And whether we’re ready to live with what comes back.”

Jack: “That’s the scariest part. Knowing the future is built from what you’ve already sent out.”

Jeeny: “But it’s also the most hopeful. It means you can start again — send something better into orbit.”

Host: The fire whispered its last few sparks. The sound of the sea rose to fill the space between them. Jack tossed the final stone — far, hard, sure. It vanished without a trace.

Jeeny: “You didn’t even make a wish.”

Jack: “Didn’t need to. I’ve already thrown enough wishes into this world.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe tonight, it’s time to start catching them.”

Host: The moonlight bathed their faces in silver, soft and forgiving. The tide rolled in, pulled back, rolled in again — patient, precise, eternal.

And in that rhythm, Florence Scovel Shinn’s words seemed to echo back to them from across the waves — not as warning, not as sermon, but as universal truth:

that nothing leaves us completely,
that every thought is a return address,
and that the art of living
is learning to throw your words,
your deeds,
your love
with enough grace
to welcome their return.