What The Dunes Remember

I had never been to Sandwich Beach before, but something about the aurora borealis forecast drew me there that evening. It was around 5:30 p.m. when I arrived, the sky still wide with light, and the clouds soft and brushed in pastels. I was still too early for the northern lights to appear, but I found myself captured by another kind of miracle: the light on the dunes, the play of sky and sea, and the stillness in the air that only comes when something sacred is about to happen.

I walked the shoreline slowly, letting the lens find its rhythm. Each frame felt like a prayer. The wind carried salt and stillness in equal measure, and I began to realize that even if the aurora never showed, I was already witnessing something profound. As someone in my 60s who has lived through losses, longings, and the ache of waiting—for justice, for healing, for beauty—I stood on that sand and felt time dissolve. It didn’t matter how many decades I had hoped to see those lights; in that moment, I was exactly where I needed to be.

Later that night, the sky would erupt in colors I could barely believe were real—greens, reds, and violets sweeping across the stars like paint. But even before that spectacle began, I knew I would always remember Sandwich Beach as the place where I first met the miracle of a specific patience fulfilled. As a photographer and a woman who has waited a lifetime to witness such a celestial gift, this beach became a threshold—between earth and sky, between longing and arrival, between the stillness of dusk and the wild, whispering lights of the cosmos.

The Edge of Expectation

The grass leans east with the wind,
and I follow its pull,
my camera cradled like a hymn
I’ve forgotten the words to—
but still I hum,
hoping the sky will answer.

Sand clings to my soles
like time I once outran.
Sixty-some years I’ve waited—
for wonder, for color,
for some sign
that dreams age too, but don’t die.

The sun gives its last bow
behind the clouds' painted veil.
I take a photo,
not of what is,
but what’s arriving—
a stillness, a spark.

This is what arrival feels like:
not thunder, not cries,
but the stillness of everything
preparing to change—
a shoreline made holy
by the ache of anticipation.

Later, the sky will bloom
with light I can hardly believe.
But even now,
before the green ghosts dance,
I know—I’ve seen enough
to believe again.

And if this is the only time
the heavens speak in this way,
let it be remembered—
that I was here,
barefoot in the stillness,
witness to the waiting.

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12in x 9in
16in x 12in
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24in x 18in
30in x 23in

12in x 9in
16in x 12in
20in x 15in
24in x 18in
30in x 23in

12in x 9in
16in x 12in
20in x 15in
24in x 18in
30in x 23in

12in x 9in
16in x 12in
20in x 15in
24in x 18in
30in x 23in

12in x 9in
16in x 12in
20in x 15in
24in x 18in
30in x 23in

12in x 9in
16in x 12in
20in x 15in
24in x 18in
30in x 23in

12in x 9in
16in x 12in
20in x 15in
24in x 18in
30in x 23in

12in x 9in
16in x 12in
20in x 15in
24in x 18in
30in x 23in