Point Wilson just after dawn: it’s oddly warm and still on the bay, while gulls wake the day.

The ferry glides off into the fog, and the sun slices through clouds and shimmers the silver waters. Then cotton batting separates to reveal blue quilted sky. Comic crows scavenge for breakfast in the tide’s leavings, and the rising sun stripes the pewter bay with bands of gold. The night’s work is over for the lighthouse, but it sends its red-then-white beacon across the waters anyway, as the curve of this beach holds me in its embrace. I am safe here, and my heart opens to the wholeness of the day. Circling gulls make a ruckus near the dock and a heron adds her voice to the gentle touch of the bay upon the sand and upon my soul.

sitting on the dock at the bay, click to enlarge

Fort Worden Beach at dawn, click to enlarge

This is my very own beach this morning, as I sit leaning against a log and dig my feet into the sand. The remaining clouds have rearranged themselves into orderly pleats of gray, navy blue, pale gold and pure cerulean. The heron finally shows herself, swooping noisily out from under the dock and gliding majestically out over the bay.

A bold crow hops along the sand right in front of my dog and I. He eyeballs me with first one eye then the other, hoping for a handout. But I am empty-handed today, feeding only on this son et lumiere.

A tugboat tows a barge across the horizon as the ferry reemerges on one of her many round trips from Keystone to Port Townsend. I love this sort of morning even more than an all-out clear-sky day. The clouds push and play with the light and create an ever-changing drama. Just now we are encircled by a half dozen pushy crows who think perhaps I have underestimated their hunger and/or their winsomeness. They must know I am a kindred spirit, a fellow crow at heart. I must remember to bring them offerings next time.

As another tug and barge duo pass by in the shipping lanes near the point, their impact sends ripples of small waves onshore. I can see the tide is coming in as rafts of shiny brown kelp float in from the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The ferry crosses through a brilliant stream of sunlight and momentarily vanishes in the powerful glare. As she returns to port, so must I.

It’s a Friday. Another day in paradise.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Have you been up to watch the dawn lately?
• Do you make enough quiet time for yourself?
• Have you fed a bird recently?
• Have you fed your soul lately?

Visit the beach on Marrowstone Island here.

The arrival of fall lures me away on a day trip by ferry from Port Townsend to Fidalgo Island.

Waiting to depart, I lean over the railing on the upper deck and watch blasé gulls sleeping on pilings below, despite the roar of the massive engine. My favorite thing is to be in the water swimming, but after that, it’s to be on the water in a boat. I love the sway of the boat, the churning of the waves as we push across the bay, then the escalating wind as we gain speed. I feel hyper-alive at such times.

Perhaps we never tire of the magic of crossing water in any sized vessel. There is always that desire to see what’s over there. But for me, the journey itself is every bit as important. I have taken this round-trip ferry ride as a walk-on passenger just to enjoy the sunrise above the Cascade Mountains that flank the east side of these waters.

Today as I drive onto the boat I enjoy the intense glints of light dancing in ever-changing patterns on the bay. As we surge across the shipping lanes that head down the Strait of Juan de Fuca toward ports in Seattle and beyond, we encounter all manner of ships. There is always a steady parade of freighters and tankers bringing in oil and taking out trees. A hardy tug blowing smoke tows an impossibly huge barge like an ant dragging a leaf thirty times its size. On this fine day, white triangles of sailboats cruise the shorelines.

Then I spot what I hate to see: two Coast Guard cutters escorting a nuclear submarine on maneuvers. This is a fairly common site, even from my house, as there is a sub base in the area at Bangor on Hood Canal. The image of the black sub—only partially exposed—moves through the water like some sinister whale. I hate to think of the destructive capabilities contained in that dark shape. It’s a vivid reminder that we are at war, and that I live on the very edge of the country whose borders need patrolling.

So I walk to the other side of the ferryboat and settle in on a sunny bench to savor autumn, my favorite, the season of transformation. I love watching the alchemy of greens going yellow then ochre, orange and overnight to scarlet. I collect leaves in every hue and scatter them across all the altars in my house.

It’s not enough that fall is decorating the landscape in flaming color—I need to bring the evidence inside where I can marvel at it hourly.

But out here on the water the signs of fall are subtle, even as we near the island there are simply suggestions of gold and amber on the hillsides. Back down on the car deck, I poke my head out a porthole to watch us glide into this shallow bay at Keystone. A sandy beach strewn with driftwood is just a few feet away as we slip easily up to the dock.

Later, on the return trip, the Holland America cruise ship Zaandam cuts across our path and dwarfs us, its black hull and many stories blotting out the setting sun. I can see passengers in the glassed-in boxes settling in for their trip to Alaska. During the summer and early fall on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings, several ships each day head out on this same voyage. I don’t envy them—it’s as if a small city follows them wherever they go. I need quieter, smaller scale modes of travel. Still, it is an interesting perspective on one of these ships which I usually watch from afar. It makes me wonder exactly how it stays afloat, so huge and boxy is its shape. Of course it’s all mathematical calculations of tonnage and displacement of water that I’ll never understand. To me it’s just another example of the magic of crossing water, of being able to go where our own bodies were not designed to take us.

Rosario Beach, Fidalgo Island

It is unmistakable—it feels different up here. Vignettes of picture postcard perfection morph and delight every few feet of path I walk. The sound of Rosario Strait tumbling small stones into roundness is bliss. A pair of squirrels frolicking in upward spirals around an ancient fir makes me laugh out loud. There is a sense of peace in this remote place.

But even more, it is the allure of all these San Juan Islands—hundreds of them—from tiny verdant dots of rocks and trees to the four largest which are served by ferries. All of the other inhabited islands are accessed only by plane or boat, which is a romantic notion in itself. As a hermetic type, the appeal of rooting way up here detached from the mainland is magnetically attractive. I think it would be easier here to remain apart from most of the madness of the 21st century, to turn back in time and live more elementally. To relate primarily to sun, rain, earth and sea, to have as next door neighbors eagles, orcas, seals and gulls. To turn inward and upward to make sense of it all.

Of course what would make that possible for me is the technology of the 21st century—my invisible uplink to the Internet. More magic—connecting to people around the world with a few clicks and keystrokes. My own refuge on the bay, while not an island, still feels like one. I see water from all my windows and these very islands across the Strait. So I already have the isolation and the views, just not that sense of total separation. Time will reveal if I need that, too.

almost home, sunset over the Olympics, click to enlarge

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What are the islands or magical places in your life?
• Is there some place you fantasize about?
• Do you need some sort of refuge right now?
• Do you need to slow down, maroon yourself somehow?

Take other special trips here.

The abandoned pier looms as a ghostly presence from the past—it could be a hundred years ago and a tall-masted schooner might be edging in through the murkiness, eager to make landfall after an ardurous trip down the Strait. White crowned sparrows twit about hoping for a handout, while swallows rise and fall, swoop and glide, up and down the beach, mimicking the gentle rhythm of the waves. Robins scour the high beach, dining on insects in the silvering driftwood, and crows discuss the morning from fir tops on the bluff. Fog horns and the blare of a huge ship passing by unseen punctuate the rich texture of birdsong.

Patches of white pearly everlastings dot the high driftline like sea foam left behind by the receding tide. Wild roses are intensely fragrant and blush the bluff pink in the hazy morning light. Beach peas grow miraculously out of the sand, nestled among sea grasses and driftwood at the winter tideline. In blues, purples and pinks, they sprawl across the beach, anchoring themselves against gusty weather with their delicate yet strong tendrils. They sing of adaptability and grace, of perseverance and joy.

Summer is in bloom on the island.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• To what do you need to adapt?
• How does grace appear in your life?
• What is asking you for perseverance?
• How can you reach out and extend joy across your world?

Soar with other bird allies here.

Is it delight in watching something earthbound improbably lift into the air? Is it holding onto the tether, hoping to understand by the gaudy bird’s tugging the essence of flight?

This post is dedicated to another beach loving kite flyer (left) my beloved Uncle Jamie, who turns 80 years young today. He is also a lifelong lover of birds and planes—things that fly, things that soar, things that capture his imagination. He is my tether to my Midwest roots and a direct link to my fatherline that reaches back hundreds of years deep into the soil. Our family are growers. We plant things. We makes things bloom. My uncle and I made a pact today to celebrate his 100th birthday, and I’m holding him to it!

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What connects you to your dreams?
• What bonds you to your family?
• How do you express your rootedness?
• When’s the last time you flew a kite?

Take another walk at Crescent Beach here.

So my trusty dog and I set out this morning to see what we could see that we don’t normally see. It didn’t take long to find something special. I was specifically looking for something to inspire a full moon post, so it was perfect that I encountered a living moon snail. Until now, I have only found the bleached empty shells, never a live one. Though that isn’t exactly true, because last year I brought home a lovely white specimen and left it on my bathroom counter. The next day I was very started to see a hermit crab edging out of it. (I promptly whisked the crab outside and back to the beach!) The living snails are much more colorful and exciting to meet.

With a diameter of up to 5 inches, the moon snail is very distinctive. It likes to bury itself in the sand and hunt beneath the surface for unsuspecting clams—or perhaps they do suspect the moon snail and retreat as fast as they can. Clam shells found with a round hole drilled in them were probably devoured by moon snails. When the snail extends its fleshy mantle, it expands to many times the size of the shell. Then it can retreat back inside itself by squeezing out its water as it winds back inside. (Crabs will in turn hunt moon snails, so they are in the middle of the food chain, both predator and prey.) Attached to the body of the snail is a thin horn-like oval object called the operculum, which acts as a door which the snail shuts after itself once safely inside. Quite the clever design.

My other interesting sighting was a number of unusual moon snail sand collar egg cases. (Well unusual to me, anyway.) The eggs are actually sandwiched between two membranes made of sand and mucus and look like old pieces of industrial rubber about a foot in diameter. Moon snails are also found on Atlantic beaches, but our variety is Lewis’ moon snail, named for Meriwether Lewis, of the Lewis and Clark expedition, who returned with shell specimens from the mouth of the Columbia River on the Oregon/Washington border. Being one of the largest shells on these beaches, moon snails are always thrilling to find.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What protective mechanisms do you employ to retreat from threats?
• Are you able to withdraw from life when you need to renew yourself?
• Do you escape into some sort of shell? Would you like to?
• Do you ever sense that you’re part of a metaphorical food chain? Perhaps in your work life?
• How does that make you feel?
• What activities make you feel predatory?

Make friends with a different shell here.

There must be dozens like it on that mile swath of pale sand, but my gaze lands on this one and it sings to me.

A slender silvered branch polished smooth by its tidal ride, it’s about four feet long, though it would measure much longer if it could be straightened. But that’s the point. My sinuous stick got this way by adapting to its environment. Each curve of its growth is a reaction to sun or wind or impediment. It survived, for a time at least, by being flexible, and even in death, it still is.

That’s what I love about it—its almost toy-like bendability. As I hold one end and move it, it sways from side to side like a needle on a speedometer tracking from 0 to 60 and back at lightning pace. It could almost be called rubbery, yet it has retained the dignity of aged wood, and at rest, the hard density.

The trajectory of its growth is erratic. At first subtle, it even grew straight for a brief time. In fact, the first half of this narrow branch’s life was unremarkable, but then things got interesting. It began to veer off on a wider arc then kinked back and forth, reacting quickly to dramatically shifting conditions. The result is a linear sculpture of delightful beauty. Lying on the sand, it mimics the course of a river in an aerial photo.

But I choose to return it to the soil, to plant it upright in the earth outside my window where it encourages me to be more flexible—to weigh other viewpoints a bit longer, to soften my own entrenched positions. It urges me to seek playfulness, to avoid stodginess. To remind me of that, I poked its pointy tip through the hole of a limpet shell from the same beach, so now it wears a jaunty conical hat. My curvaceous stick also speaks to me about styles of reasoning; maybe the path to my answer is circuitous. Perhaps the best route between two points is not the shortest.

Or more simply—twisted can be good.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Is there some area of your life calling out for a more flexible attitude?
• Have you enjoyed plenty of playfulness lately?
• Could you be more adaptive to the curves in your path?
• Is there some twisted aspect to your life that deserves celebration?

Visit another wonder-filled beach here.

Part of the Makah Nation, this is wild land with unpredictable weather and spectacular scenery. I hope you’ll endure the slow loading of this post, as I just couldn’t limit any further the number of photos I wanted to share with you.
I really want to convey the power of the misnamed Pacific Ocean–even on a mild spring day. (Do click on the images to appreciate the energy of the waves.)

Though it was mostly sunny and warm for April, there was a high haze of thin clouds that grayed the sky. Even so, the way the waves caught the muted sunlight and rode it to shore was mesmerizing.

There are many rocky offshore islands that add to the magic and tantalize in their inaccessible beauty.

Hobuck beach is remarkably long and wide and sandy, and has phenomenal beachcombing. It’s home to all sorts of stones, shells and driftwood which have been shaped and sanded by the raging surf here. (For contrast, the photo below was taken on a sunnier day last September.)

Hobuck beach is protected a bit by Cape Flattery to the north (below). There is space to be alone and dream, to walk for hours and meditate on the rhythms of your life. The pounding of the surf must alter your state of mind and muscle. You WILL relax!

Up at Cape Flattery there is a 1.5 mile roundtrip hike through dense old-growth forest to the edge of the land and back. Those with trick knees need not apply. Otherwise, it’s well worth the uphill return climb. When I was there, the fog sneaked in and out to add to the mystery, and I could hear migrating whales frolicking in the coves below the cliffs. The earth here reveals the effects of being the first landfall for the mighty Pacific Ocean. It makes for an other-worldly landscape, where everything is on a huge scale, and I felt rightfully insignificant as a mere human amid this splendor.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What are the powerful forces in your life right now?
• Is something battering your shores, altering your image or life?
• Are you out of sync with natural rhythms trying to reassert themselves?
• Are you in touch with a wild part of your soul, a place to be untamed, raw and real?
• Is there a safe harbor in your life, a sacred cove where you can go to be your most magnificent self?

DOWNLOADABLE AFFIRMATION CARD

click image to enlarge, right click to save and print

Stroll on other Pacific beaches here.

This is where the Strait of Juan de Fuca turns and angles northwest, following the wild, vacant edge of Vancouver Island. Even the low hills there are frosted white.

A steady breeze shoves the temperature near freezing. An eagle circles above me then lands on the small island in Crescent Bay. The tiny dollop of land is home to fir trees growing straight and tall, and it reminds me of a birthday cake with candles. Perhaps because I have cake on my mind, since I am here with my friend and it is her birthday. Or is the island a mirage of my increasing appetite? The eagle has perched on a low branch, ready to swoop his supper out of the surf. A heron pokes into a tidepool, also ready to dine.

Scampering over the seaweed-covered rocks, a raccoon appears, then stops suddenly when our eyes meet. Who is the more surprised to see the other in this desolate place and moment? The youngster, not yet full-grown, seems in a hurry, and pauses only long enough to size me up, looming large on the bluff above her. Why do I think it’s a female? Because she looks so vulnerable all alone this chilly day on this risky edge? Deciding I am no threat, she navigates her way past waves, over slippery basalt, down to a pebbly cove and finally climbs uphill into the safety of the woods. Then she stops and turns back to gaze at me and my dog, perhaps glad of one more uneventful encounter with a human.

Last summer, when there were more people clambering over these rocks and strange-suited divers emerging from the water here, she was just a tiny kit, protected by her mother. Where is her family now? Has she outgrown her mother’s care? Or was she scurrying home to her, warm in a cedar hollow?

This small raccoon stirs some maternal instinct in me. While she is probably just fine (and much better suited to this place in her thick fur coat than I am) I still desire to know she is safe, as she seems a bit like an orphan, but I lost sight of her as she disappeared into the darkening woods.

I hope her belly was full of crab and scallops. And I hope her spirit was brimming with delight at living in this spectacular meeting of sea and shore. I know mine is.

Take another walk on Salt Creek Beach, this time at dawn on a warm September day.

looking north toward Hole in the Wall landmark click to enlarge

Rialto Beach has it all: impressive sea stacks to frame the views, stones of all shapes and sizes to sort through in search of special treasures, enough driftwood for a lifetime of imagining and collecting and wide sandy beaches that go on for days. In fact, it’s the starting point for backpackers who hike north into the wilderness beaches only accessible on foot. No longer being up to that sort of bodily stress, my dog and I camped on the Quillayute River just a mile away. Bliss. Peace. Exultation. I don’t think I could oversell this place.

ghost tree at Rialto Beach, Washington click to enlarge

MEDITATION

Despite the spectacular beauty of the ocean, Rialto Beach is all about trees. Where the forest meets the shore, it is fringed with a row of standing dead Sitka spruce trees. Though these giant ghost trees have stopped growing, they still have a silvery majestic presence. They died because winter tides suffocated them with stones and soaked their roots in saltwater. The trees look like bones stuck into the sand, spines with vertebrae angling toward sea and sky. Though the ocean tosses huge logs against them each year, the logs simply amass at their feet, and their roots stubbornly reach down through sand to cling to earth.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What relics of past experiences and relationships are still visible in your life?
• What purpose are they serving?
• Is it time to let them fall?

tree souls still standing at Rialto Beach click to enlarge

Eventually, the ghost trees will lean, then fall or perhaps snap off during a violent storm. Then they will add their bodies to the accumulated piles of driftwood that is the hallmark of this beach. Just past the mouth of the Quillayute River, this beach collects all shapes and sizes of logs and root masses, which the sea tumbles and sculpts into sensuous, rounded treasures. As these magical pieces of wood bake in the summer sun, they bleach and dry. Then the higher tides return and they are buffed some more and repositioned farther down the beach. It’s an eternal process that each day creates new wonders to discover.

islands at the mouth of the Quillayute River click to enlarge

Just offshore are James Island and Little James, two rocky sea stacks which are living examples of the never ending cycle of trees. Dropped by birds and breezes, spruce seeds are able to root atop these rocks and withstand the relentless salt winds of the Pacific. A small forest thrives atop the larger island, and two stalwart spruces are pioneering the smaller one. The islands provide a safe haven for shorebirds to nest and a visually stunning backdrop for the ever-crashing waves. They must be very special tree spirits who are able to root there and survive amid such extreme elemental forces.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What hardships have you overcome?
• How have they made you stronger?
• How will you thrive in spite of them?
• What shape has your life taken as a result?

DOWNLOADABLE AFFIRMATION CARD

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