I try to take a picture everyday…and most days I successfully take and post a photo on Instagram. But some days, getting out of my own way and out into the world to find something interesting to snap seems impossible, or the photo I do take doesn’t feel worthy of posting. On those days, I take a wander through my camera roll in search of a photo taken recently that hadn’t yet made it’s way into public view.
And, to be honest, photos help me write when I get stuck. And stuck I am today…I already wrote a post that I won’t post. It is simply too dull to impose on anyone! So instead I took a stroll through my camera roll and came across this pelican I photographed a week or so ago.
One of my favorite things to photograph on the beach are seabirds. Egrets are my favorite…and I post and write about them frequently. Seagulls are pretty common and royal terns are such characters they make me laugh. The occasional osprey fascinates, especially if I am lucky enough to watch the powerful dive and snatching of a fish from the sea. And pelicans…more often than not I see them from afar, often in formation above me or surfing along the waves. But lately, I’ve come across some pelicans hanging out on the reef along the shore.
On those days, I creep close, trying to pay enough attention to my feet not to drench my tennies in the cool, briny water. I creep and snap, afraid to wait to take my photo until I am where I want to be–knowing that anything may cause the bird to flee into the sky.
This guy let me get pretty close–even looking me right in the camera lens at one point, seemingly unconcerned. These birds are huge and so prehistoric looking. It’s hard to believe that a bird that is so incredibly graceful in the sky is so awkward-looking when you get up close.
Finally, unrelated to me, this pelican decided to leave as I watched it raise its wings and lift that enormous body into the sky. Luckily, I’ve learned to watch and snap photos at the same time, determined to capture some of the wonder I am feeling as I watch these incredible birds.
Writing this takes me back to the deep blue of that afternoon some days ago. I can almost feel the sun on my shoulders and the cool breeze on my cheeks. And I’m glad I can take a few moments of bird-spiration to share some of my wonder and appreciation of nature’s beauty with you.
I woke with a jolt at 2am to the rumble of thunder, the room lighting up even under my closed eyelids. The patter of water on the roof followed, the predicted rain had arrived. Forecasts for rain are often unrealized promises in these parts as we watch the rain percentages on the weather app drain away as the appointed rainy day nears. We were lucky this time, we did get close to half an inch overnight.
Friday afternoons are blissfully usually Zoom-free, with most people being done with meetings as the week winds toward the weekend. That also means I can often squeeze in a walk on the beach if the tide conditions are right. And today was perfect. With a negative tide around 4pm, we would have plenty of beach to walk and explore. There is nothing like heading to the coast to make that separation between work and the weekend.
After a storm is a glorious time. The sea is wild with wind-whipped whitecaps and the shore is often empty as sun bathers stay away and water lovers wait out a few more hours before risking the swim. With temps in the high 50’s, the time was right for some exploration and deep breathing.
The tidepools beckoned. I stepped carefully, making sure to avoid the exposed sea anemones. And I found myself mesmerized by the ripples in the water, catching the light and dancing in the light sea breeze.
Geoff is an avid beach cleaner, always with a bag in hand to pick up any trash we encounter. Storms push the trash to shore and we came across an assortment of styrofoam pieces (from surfboards and from food containers), straws, bits of colorful plastic, and even this mostly intact plastic food/drink container. I couldn’t resist a shot with the seagull in the background before Geoff added it to his trash bag.
I love the way a walk on the beach unkinks my shoulders and smooths my brow. The white noise of the waves crashing clears my mind and helps me set my work aside and be present in the beauty of nature. I leave windblown and refreshed and this week, ready to host our San Diego Area Writing Project (SDAWP) Spring Conference tomorrow morning. Another beach walk may be in store tomorrow afternoon…
I probably take thousands of photos in a year (I take photos every day–and some days I know I take hundreds of photos). Even though I post one each day, the photos build up in my camera roll, on my computer, and get a bit muddled in my mind. It’s sometimes hard to remember photos from last week, let alone last month. Last year after a battle with Instagram’s best 9, I curated a photo from each month of the year and wrote a “best of” post featuring 13 favorites from 2020.
So as 2021 was coming to an end, I sorted through my camera roll and picked out a favorite from each month. Some months this was an excruciatingly hard process–I had more than one that was my favorite. Other months it was a struggle to find a photo that I loved enough to be called favorite. But with some help from my hubby and some pretty strict criteria that I self-imposed, I narrowed my choices down to 12.
I probably could have done a best of in 12 birds or a best of in 12 seascapes, but I tried to include images from a variety of contexts–although you will notice that my images are heavily influenced by the Pacific Ocean.
Like 2020, last year was also heavily influenced by the worldwide pandemic. The year began with most of us hunkered down, staying close to home. Vaccines were not yet available, we were still masked most of the time, and travel was limited (if it existed at all).
Finding interesting places to walk is an ongoing quest for us. Some days the tides at the beach simply don’t cooperate and there is no beach to walk at all. In January 2021 we found ourselves at our alma mater, UCSD, exploring old haunts and new construction, including the vending machines with COVID test kits that you swipe with your ID card to access. While we walked I couldn’t help but notice this gorgeous red leaf hanging on for dear life. Fall colors are neither dramatic nor timely in these parts, so this January gem seemed special and made for a beautiful harbinger for a new year.
Valentine’s Day happened to fall on the first weekend of our February break in 2021, so to celebrate we decided to be tourists in our own town! We drove downtown, masked up, and took the ferry across the bay to Coronado. The Coronado Bay Bridge is an iconic landmark here and I couldn’t resist photographing from below, especially since the third graders in my class happened to be studying bridges at that time. I love the perspective that shows some of the under-supports along with the sweeping curve of the roadway with the boats, bay, and clouds on view too.
Giant kelp, macrocystis pyrifera, is a common sight on our beaches. But bull kelp, with enormous floats the size of softballs or larger is less common. This amber algae is native to our shoreline and is home to many fish and other sea life. And when it washes up on the shore, it becomes a favorite subject for a still life photo. There are no bad months for beach walking and March just happened to be the month when I came across a bull kelp still life opportunity on my favorite walking beach.
Art takes all forms and can take you back in time. In April a short road trip to Palm Springs took us back to the time of the dinosaurs and brought us face-to-face with a life sized T-Rex. The Cabazon dinosaurs is a throwback roadside attraction with huge cement dinosaurs–some realistic like the one above and some less so, like the pepto-pink brontosaurus that also houses a gift shop. Sometimes photos feel like art and at other times they are a documentation of life experiences. What funky roadside attractions can you find nearby?
In May I headed up, climbing the stairs of another nearby beach. This place offers a vantage to watch seabirds above sea level. From this perch, pelicans come close, soaring by at eye level, bringing details into focus. The challenge is clicking that shutter at just the right time to freeze the image in sharp focus. I continue to work to achieve that ideal photo of a pelican in flight!
To celebrate our wedding anniversary in June we headed up the coast to San Clemente. If you know Southern CA, you know that June can be spectacular–sunny, clear and warm–or plagued with the infamous “June gloom” that grays out the coast, washing away color and cooling temperatures. Watching the Surfliner emerge from the foggy gloom around the bend with lights on created a mystical image. I love when the light is right and my camera is poised. You never know what may come out of the gloom!
As I write and reflect, I realize that 2021 was a year of many short road trips. July was a rough month for me and my family. After my dad died mid-month, I needed to get away. So we headed to Santa Barbara, three hours up the coast. We walked beach after beach, not thinking or planning, just feeling cool sea air, watching sherbet colored sunsets, and noticing… This family of ducks caught my eye. Mama mallard and her ducklings out for a swim in the surf was fascinating to watch. Mama urged her babies out, they tumbled in the white water then regained their footing and tried it again. I don’t know if this is normal duck behavior, but it was fun to watch and photograph.
In August we made that long, seemingly endless trek up I-5 through the central valley to visit family in the Bay Area. In the summer tomato trucks are a usual sight. These trucks always remind me of my dad–a person who loved big equipment, driving, agriculture and farming, and had this weird wish to drive tomato trucks. I have gotten in the habit of taking photos of these trucks through the window as we drive up the 5, sometimes sending them to my dad, just for fun. This year, just a few weeks after his death, taking these photos made me feel close to my dad. I would notice the rich red of the tomato haul visible in the northbound trucks, bring them into focus as we approached, and then try again as we passed truck after truck after truck. Southbound trucks were empty, heading back to pick up another load and make that round trip again.
September meant back to school and fewer crowds on our local beaches. September is a perfect month for Southern CA beach going–and I think the shore birds agree. The skies are clear, the weather and the water warm, and the parking–while not exactly plentiful–is not like searching for a needle in a haystack! I like to station myself close to the birds, waiting quietly and creeping close to capture an interesting and (hopefully) different image. If you look closely, you’ll notice this bird is standing on one leg.
A Halloween birthday means my husband has spent much of his life celebrating with costumes and trick or treaters. This year we decided to make a trip to the Channel Islands on Halloween. We boarded a boat in Ventura and were treated to an amazing play session with a humpback whale on our way out and to hundreds and hundreds of dolphins dancing around our boat on our way back near sunset. While photos do not even begin to represent the phenomenal experience, this image does capture some of the beauty and grace of these amazing mammals and takes me back to my memories of the day.
You’ve probably noticed that I seldom take photos of people, instead focusing mostly on nature with my photography. This November shot is a rare exception to my posting habit. I do take photos of some people–mostly family members and often my grandsons. But I tend not to post those on social media. We were lucky enough to have family gather with us during Thanksgiving week in 2021 and the week ended with a sunset visit to my favorite beach. I couldn’t resist this shot of my grandson mesmerized by the colorful sky as the sun sank into the sea.
And could I really tell the tale of a year without including a photo of an egret? This shot features an egret in flight above the sun cracked waters on a cloudy December day. You have to look closely to notice the egret in silhouette in the distance. I love their distinctive shape, both in flight and when they are standing.
Twelve months, twelve photos, a year in review. I selected the photos before Christmas–before we explored the redwoods at the John Muir Forest and before we visited the monarchs wintering in Santa Cruz. But I’ll still stick to these twelve–they are my “best of” for the time frame when I did the selecting.
How might you go about selecting a best of collection to represent last year or last month or even last week? I’d love to know about your curation process.
I walk the beach feeling the water-laden air kiss my cheeks as the breeze lifts my hair straight up, making me taller by inches. Water, clear as it pours from my water bottle, takes on every shade of blue as I look out to the sea on this sunny day. What is it about the qualities of water that allow us to see so many colors when we look out at the ocean? Water both absorbs and scatters light, swallowing the red, orange, yellow, and green wavelengths, leaving the shorter blues and violets for us to see as blue’s variations.
Water, also known by its formula H2O, is a miracle of chemistry. The magnetic-like attraction of hydrogen and oxygen pulls the atoms together to create this unparalleled life-giving substance. Water is a magical shape-shifter. When it heats up, it becomes a gas we call steam, rising nearly invisible into the air. When it cools down, it becomes hard and cold and incredibly strong. We call it ice and as it warms and melts, it becomes liquid water once again. Water evaporates, condenses, and precipitates in a constant state of movement through the water cycle, creating our weather, refreshing our reservoirs, blanketing mountains with snow, watering crops, cooling the surface of our planet. Earth’s surface is 70% covered by water. Scientists are constantly seeking evidence of water on other planets as a gauge for the possibility of life as we know it.
We not only depend on water, we are made of water. Human bodies are 60% water. Water quenches our thirst, cleans our bodies, refreshes us on a hot summer’s day, runs through our veins, flushes through our organs. We crave water, fear water. It lulls us to sleep and shouts for our attention.
My memories are saturated with water.
The birth of my first child came with the unexpected gush of a river of meconium-stained amniotic fluid, right after my husband told me, “Let’s not have the baby tonight–I’m exhausted.” That flow of water set in motion the activity, the worry, the joy, and the endless nature of parenting with the arrival of the most perfect baby boy–unrivaled until his brother joined us a couple of years later. And with that flow and the baby that accompanied it came more attention to bodily waters. Suddenly liquid intake and output became something to measure and worry about. Is he getting enough milk? Peeing enough back out? I found myself swimming through waves of information seeking that perfect watery balance.
We hear all the time that we should drink eight 8-ounce glasses of water each day. It seems that everyone carries large bottles of water around with them. Is it too late to drink once you feel thirsty? Can you drink too much water? I’ve heard the stories of people dying simply by drinking too much water. Water intoxication, also known as hyponatremia, happens during major sporting events, fueled by the fear that dehydrating would be worse. Water is both necessary for life and can take life away–and sometimes make it unpleasant, even when you are trying to have fun. It’s not always about drinking water, sometimes it’s the movement of water that is the culprit.
The rhythmic motion pounded, creating that endless swirl like a washing machine, constant steady movement against my forehead, from the inside out, as I tried to push against it. Then it migrated to the pit of my stomach before bouncing back, heading toward my throat. Maybe I’ll feel better in the water I thought as I adjusted my goggles and snorkel. Geoff was watching the boys as they dipped into the ocean in search of brightly colored reef fish, and trying not to watch and worry about me. Somehow the motion of the water was an exact match to the stomach churning rhythm of the boat, today was not going to be my day for snorkeling fun. Why is it that even as I love being on the water and in the water, that it can cause me so much distress?
But distress is not my constant companion in watery experiences. There’s an exhilaration and playfulness that splashes over some of these watery memories. “This boat is nearly impossible to flip.” Did Dad mean it as a dare as he generously allowed my sister and I and our partners to sail out into the bay,–without him? A light wind and a sunny summer’s day enticed us to believe, inexperienced as we were, that, of course, we could sail this little sailboat without mishap. Luckily, we were all swimmers and our young men were strong enough to pull the boat upright after some ineffective sailing techniques tested the limits of the flippability of that boat.
And tinier, much more usual moments can also bring so much joy. I am drawn to the beach, mesmerized by the funky smell–fishy and salty and wet, the whoosh and roar of waves as they hit the shore–echoes of the push and pull of blood through my heart, and the ever changing landscape–sculpted and shifted by tidal changes. Some days I spy the bubble man with his magic wand. He lifts his arms to the sea breeze and bubbles–a magic potion of soap and water–stretch and dance, reflecting all the colors of the rainbow. I stand transfixed, my camera at the ready, watching children–magnetized by the spectacle–running and jumping, chasing these orbs until they pop.
I wake in the night feeling water seeping from my still closed eyes, dreams and nightmares locked in an embrace, a tortured dance of real-life and deep subconsciousness. The cancer slowly erodes his strength and independence, taking away so much of what he loves about life. The smallest joys–walking around the neighborhood to see what is going on in the community, morning coffee at the local coffee shop to spin lies with the other old men–are no longer possible. There is not enough breath, not enough blood to take those extra steps, to carry on an extended conversation. He’s alive, but is he living? My tears spill over, dampening my pillow, offering relief, if only for a moment. I know the dam will burst at some point, but like him, I hold it back as a show of my strength and independence. Like father, like daughter.
***
Nature’s mirror, water reflects its surroundings. Some days you can walk on clouds, watch egrets admire their image, and see details of the landscape you missed while looking straight on. Other days are gray and flat, colors muted by the lack of sun. When the clouds are low it’s like being submerged in a small damp box, trapped inside with only your own watery thoughts to splash through. Moist thoughts stick, working their way from my head to my heart. Sometimes they gather and rise, churning, lifted by invisible forces, a storm waiting to unleash. At their best they shine, gathering the light, refracting into rainbows of colorful ideas ready to be unleashed in the world. Water is life, water takes life, and like fish, we swim in it, through it, beyond it, drinking in its lessons, flooded with memories…of water, our lifeblood.
Faced with a long drive back home, we decided to detour and find some mini adventures on our way. It makes for a long day…but was filled with small surprises that provided the perfect fodder for some Haiku.
Exploring with my camera is a way to clear my head, to relax, and to pay attention to the world. But I have to admit, the monotony of a lockdown year has taken its toll. I’ve had to work to find new ways to look at the things I have seen over and over again.
For a change of pace, today we headed up the coast to a seaside town about 30 miles north of here. We did a bit of shopping and then, of course, headed out to the beach to walk and take photos.
I know, I know…I take beach photos regularly. But a different place offers a different vantage. Today I found myself focused on lines. We parked near the train station and right away my eye was drawn to the parallel levels of lines…the train tracks, the fence line, and the horizon line of the ocean behind. (And the blues were magnificent today!)
As I stepped up closer to the fence to peer over at the ocean, a series of horizontal lines came into view.
We had intended to walk the seaside trail parallel to the shore, but on the east side of the train tracks. Unless the tide is low, there isn’t much beach to walk on this beach. We started off–but the summer-like weather brought out the crowds–and the trail was feeling pretty uncomfortable with a combination of runners and walkers, dogs on leashes, and bikes (both electric and pedal-powered) whizzing past. At the first staircase access to the beach, we headed to the sand, realized the tide was low and getting lower, so decided that the shoreline was out best walking choice. There were still people, but they were much more spread out–in the water and laying in the sun–giving us a wide, unencumbered walking space.
As we passed the pier, I could hear aircraft. Helicopters are pretty usual. We have military bases nearby, coast guard copters, and of course people out to see the sights from above. But when I looked up I noticed a small plane cruising by…right over the pier. More lines.
Every time I visit a pier I feel compelled to take a few shots from beneath. There is something about the view of the ocean through the elaborate under structure that fascinates. Each pier is a bit different–some have a specific “door” to look through. This one does not, but it does have lots and lots of different lines to look at.
Even the pigeons managed to get in on the line action today. They were hanging out not far from the fishing people on the pier. Just waiting.
So is there anything significant about all these lines? This would be the time for the pithy conclusion to give meaning to a series of photos featuring lines. Instead, I appreciate a day slightly different from the ones that preceded it. And a perspective that took my eye in some different directions. Hope you also enjoy these lines, in all their insignificance.
I like to think of each day a treasure hunt. I look for those hidden gems–sometimes only unseeable because of my own shortsightedness.
On those days when everything seems unbearably humdrum, monotonous, with sameness coloring my every thought, I have to stretch myself to find something, anything at all, that I can classify as treasure.
I was finding myself in the humdrum doldrums on a recent walk at the beach. Impossible, you say! The beach couldn’t possibly be boring or mundane. Except when my brain fills with negative thoughts…all the I want-tos that just can’t happen…yet.
Time for a treasure hunt.
Winter tides bring lots of rock onto the shore. And sometimes, when the light is right and I look at just the right angle, I’ll notice the glint of buried treasure. Sea glass comes in a variety of colors, sizes, shapes, and degrees of ocean sanding. It’s always such a treat to come across a piece during a walk along the shore.
Sometimes the treasure is all about just how you look at something. There’s a place along the beach that we call “the corner.” The cliff juts out a bit, making it tricky to get around when the tide is high. But when you look at that corner, the cliff itself, just right, a face appears. Another treasure. Judge for yourself.
You never know when you’ll come across the remains of someone’s work of art. It might be a stack of stones: a beach cairn. It might be an image raked into the sand. And sometimes it’s a sand castle. This treasure caught my eye because of its creative use of algae. Even in its tumbledown ruin, you can see the brilliance of the design…and the cloudy light also brings a certain feeling of low-key ambiance that whispers treasure in my ear.
Reliving this treasure hunt brightens my day. Remember that treasure is in the eye of the beholder–that the littlest of bright spots can make all the difference in the way you feel at the end of the day. Make time for a little treasure hunt. I’d love to see what treasures you find!
Today, my husband decided, would be the perfect morning for popovers. Unlike biscuits, popovers are not a food I grew up eating. In fact, I first had popovers a few years ago: at Acadia National Park in Maine.
I listened to the mixer whirl as Geoff prepared the ingredients to pour into the special popover pan that we purchased upon returning from our Maine exploration. It’s one of those pans that is specially made for just this purpose–so most of the time, the pan is buried in a lower drawer that we don’t frequently access.
While they baked in the oven we had a quick conversation with our 5-year-old twin grandsons, who love to see what grandpa is up to in the kitchen. After saying goodbye to their special friends (those special much-loved items that are always close by when they are at home), I heard the timer ring. When the oven opened, a warm eggy smell filled the air, mixing with the smell of coffee freshly brewed.
And as I bit into one of these tasty treats, smothered in butter and jam, my mind revisited that moment when I was introduced to this comforting snack on a cool summer day not far from Jordan Pond in Acadia National Park.
We had walked and walked, following a hiking trail that circled the pond.
My camera ever in hand, I couldn’t resist take photos of all the mushrooms. There were so many varieties and they were such bright colors! (So different from mushroom life here in Southern California!)
And we ended our adventure in a National Park restaurant–known for its popovers. So when in popover territory–and after hiking all day–try some popovers.
Today’s popover breakfast took me back to that wonderful Maine exploration. What a wonderful way to take a mini-vacation through my memories (and some photos) in the midst of this mind-numbing pandemic. I look forward to my next trip to Maine and some more popovers…sooner rather than later!
I walked into a cloud, experiencing it now from the inside out. Water drops too small to see kiss my cheeks as they swirl and dance all around me. My vision is soft-edged, everything ahead of me in vignette. Cocooned in light as the sun’s rays, wrapped in cotton balls, bounce and reflect. The world feels close and small in the cloud. I can’t see too far ahead or too far behind, I’m forced into the here and now, noticing what is right here.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the cloud lifts and opens wide, like a deep breathe and the blue appears. The world expands and the view shifts. I walk out of the fog.
I had a snow day today. Of course I know that most of you will be scratching your head and thinking, what is she talking about? It’s Sunday! But then you will need to know that, in fact, I have never had a snow day. Not once have I experienced one of those days that so many of you describe. No school, no work, just a snowy day for tucking in to read by the fire or to spend outdoors playing in the snow. (You may also notice some romanticizing that goes along with never having lived where it snows!)
I’m lucky enough to live in a place where within a two hour drive you can go to the beach, to the desert, or to the mountains. So this morning as we debated how to spend a wide-open Sunday, my husband suggested our local mountains. With rain last week on the coast, our mountains got some snow. We wondered if the snow was still on the ground, so we checked out the mountain webcam just to see what to expect. It looked like there was still some patches of snow at the highest elevations, so we dressed for snow, laced up our hiking boots, and headed east.
As we passed the 4000 ft mark, we started to notice small bits of snow on the side of the road. We zigzagged up the winding mountain switchbacks, at times feeling like we were right in the middle of the clouds. At about 5000 ft, the skies opened up to all the shades of blue along with bright sunshine…and snow! We started to find cars pulled off to the sides of the already narrowed roads and saw kids on plastic sleds and boogie boards slipping and sliding on available open roadside patches of snow.
When we got to the Palomar Observatory we found the parking lots closed and fences bolted. But not far from there, we found our own side-of-the-road space to pull into. We pulled on hats and jackets and headed out to explore. We stomped through some snow drifts, hoping to find some marked trails to hike. Instead, we found still fresh snow perfect for snowman building. So…we built (in a minimalist sort of way).
I love to explore through the lens of my camera. I snapped pictures of pine cones, of snow tucked in the nooks of trees, of rounded mounds on tree stumps softened by the sun. (I had abandoned my jacket by then–it was a gorgeous, warm snowy day!)
And we even found some places with stunning long range vistas of the valley below.
When we headed back down the mountain to the west, we decided to make a stop at the beach for a walk to get those exercise minutes logged on our watches since the hiking trails on the mountains just weren’t accessible to us snow novices. It was a mountains to the sea kind of snowy day adventure. And the perfect way to spend a wide-open, spring-ahead Sunday.
Thinking Through My Lens 