But, what does it mean?

If one doesn’t know the language or doesn’t have an insider’s knowledge, what does anything mean? This assemblage of things on the utility pole meant nothing to me. The yellow rectangle against the faded wood caught my eye, as did the contrast of the bits and strips of metal against the wood, and the recognizable letters and numbers, but still oblivious as to their purpose.

When I was in France, I was a bit disoriented because I don’t know the language, didn’t know what the signs indicated, I couldn’t read the menu, I didn’t know how to use the public telephone, perhaps most importantly, where to find the public restroom! All of the recognizable letters and numbers were merely charming to look at and guess at what they meant. I was so grateful for the many who took their time to help a foreigner with a dazed look.

Sometimes life is this way, isn’t it? I go through my days noting colors and contrasts and patterns as they present themselves, recognizing letters and numbers, dazed by budgets and expenses and different people and trying to earn a living and what that means now at 62 versus what earning a living meant at 22, 32, 42, 52, enjoying sunsets, curious about what might next come into my personal realm, marveling at what’s going on in the big, wide world … but ignorant as to what it all means. Is my appreciation of life—the good and the bad—diminished because I’m clueless? a l’effet contraire!

In the eye of the beholder ...

Beauty is a very subjective issue, isn't it. You might look at this photograph I shot of some old derelict beach shack and wonder what in the world I could possibly find beautiful about it. I don't make apology for my aesthetic eye. I really dig the various textures and movement of the undulating lines, the white brush stroke, the knots, the distressing, the shadows, the colors. Me likee!

Just as me likee the subdued hues of Birch Bay. I make no apology for the tans and grays and blacks of the tideflats at low tide; or the almost nonexistent waves, except during stormy, windy days that send the water splashing up on Birch Bay Drive.

It's certainly different from the glare of sunshine and blue skies and the crash and roar of the seafoam or steely blue Pacific surf with frothy white caps and surfboard dudes and beach Bettys I experienced in Southern California beaches.

Don't get me wrong. There are summer sunsets here that rend the sky with slashes of purples, reds, oranges and golds that tantalize as they make you squint because you don't want to miss a nanosecond of the everchanging color show.

I, for one, enjoy the understated beauty of the beach at Birch Bay, where one has to look a little closer to discern the diverse seashells, the whoop of glee at discovering a clear agate you might only notice as a certain set of the sun gleams through the stone, or changing of seasons as witnessed by the various baby crab carapaces or fragile clam shells strewn across the beach--those that didn't make it to adulthood. Later in August and September you'll see no longer menacing adult crab claws and carapaces wash up on the beach.

Always something beautiful to be found, if you look beyond the bleached driftwood, the monochrome tans and grays and blacks.

The Promise of ...

It rained today. It wasn't cold or blustery, just springtime wet. Everyone bustled about their business, as usual. Rain? So what! There's the promise of warm, sunny days next week. I relish the idea of sunshine bringing a spectrum of color back to Birch Bay!

Is life easier for the seagulls and bald eagles and the scores of other birds on the bay when it's sunny? I wonder if they are helped or hindered in their daily getting-on by sunshine or rain. Do they open their peepers at dawn, s-t-r-e-t-c-h their wingspan to the fullest, and think, "Wouldn't you know it! Another gray day in the Pacific Northwest!"

Ahhhh, the promise of sunshine ...

Granny Code Revisited

A few weeks ago I rambled on about showing off my sunset photos in lieu of photographs of my grandkiddies. Imagine my amazement at the number of grandmothers in my acquaintance who agreed and wrote to tell me so.

One of these radical grannies is long-time bosom buddy, Karen Smith, of Oceanside, CA. More to the point, we were belly buddies, meeting for the first time in Lamaze class pregnant with our firstborn sons.

Hmmm, just flashed on the thought that our respective husbands went by the wayside, but she and I are still dear friends. I digress.

Here’s Karen with her canine cutie, Twink, lovingly in the pink. Karen remarked, “I knew there were a lot of us out there who carry dog photos WITH our grandkids photos, and usually show our dog first. LOL Some people don’t talk about grandkids because it ages them—you know, the plastic crowd—but there are many of us who just think of grandchildren as a natural extension of a full life. We are all so busy with other things these days; grandchildren just melt into the blend of life :o] ”

I have been blessed to count many artistic and creative men and women among my friends, but I have to brag on Karen. She has a unique and inspiring ability to combine her sculpting skills with a talent for poignant storytelling underscored by strong spirituality. Her art reflects her life. Here are a couple of her creations. I encourage you to check out her website at http://www.karenwilliamssmith.com/ .

You’ll be glad you took the time to wander through her online gallery.