In my last post, I wrote about how my photography and writing practice has changed because of a physical limitation. I used to write essays about photos that were fresh off the iPhone1 after a long walk on the beach. But since I can’t walk that far, I decided I would accept my limitations and start using photographs from my archive for this Metaphor Monday series.

But I really really like the immediacy2 of sharing my very latest experiences. I am having trouble finding the enthusiasm for featuring old photos. I haven’t posted a new essay in three weeks. (I have been posting a weekly Wednesday Waves video in my Substack Notes, an experiment in getting better at nature videos.)

Last week, I took a road trip to Port Townsend, Washington, to visit a dear friend whom I hadn’t seen in a couple years. On Saturday, we met up for coffee on the town’s waterfront, and sat at a public picnic table. She asked me how my writing was going, and I explained how I felt stuck, not being able to go out on long beach walks and photograph the ocean and shore. “I don’t know why I can’t I get inspired, regardless of where I am,” I lamented. She’s a supportive friend, and she gave me a big hug before I got in my car for the long drive home to Manzanita.

I got up Sunday morning early, made coffee, and sat outside on my porch, a practice that’s replaced the early morning beach walks. And I noticed that the view of the mountain was reflected in the rainwater on the porch railing.

I love this photo. The branches and the clouds and the reflections feel delicate and harmonious, set off by the angles of the porch. I think I’ve been waiting for Inspiration™ to strike, when I just need to keep my eyes—and my mind—open.

Metaphor Monday #62

I’ve been writing this Substack since October 2024. The weeklyish routine has been:

• walk on the beach

• notice interesting things and photograph them

• write a short essay illustrated with one or two of the photos

Unfortunately, it’s been over a month since I’ve been able to take my usual morning beach walks.

At the end of May, I noticed some pain in my left heel. Maybe I bruised it, I thought. I took it easy. Ice. Rest. Ibuprofen. Cushioned heel inserts. But it persisted for days, and now weeks. It is the return of the dreaded plantar fasciitis. I had it over 10 years ago. I know it can take a long time to get better.

Instead of walking, I’ve started sitting outside on my porch every morning with my coffee. I can see the mountain. I can hear the ocean. I listen to the birds, and learn their calls, thanks to the Merlin app.

I have not fallen into a well of depression and isolation. I believe that the exposure to nature, even in this more modest context, has saved me. For this, I am deeply grateful.

All this reminded me of a study that showed even just looking at nature photos can be good for you. I couldn’t remember where I saw it, so I did an internet search, and found a fascinating article by psychologist right here on Substack.

Even under tightly controlled indoor conditions, nature imagery has been shown to produce relaxation responses (like reduced cortisol and muscle tension) that are comparable to those achieved by actually being outdoors in nature.… The prescription is simple: when you can’t get out into nature, let nature come to you in pictures. (emphasis mine)

This has inspired me to pivot with my writing and photography. The last two years, I focused on bringing my audience the latest images from my little corner of the Oregon coast. That is not going to work right now. But I do have tens of thousands of nature photos in my library. I plan to revisit my previous work and write about that. It will do me good to look at those images again, and maybe it will do you good as well.

The photo at the top is my laptop’s wallpaper, taken July 30, 2024. I chose it as my wallpaper because it has minimal contrast and distraction. Yet I have noticed it always makes me smile. Something about those two gulls striding in unison. I love their sense of gull purpose. I think I’ve found mine again.

Metaphor Monday #61

I added two new cards to the Well-Tempered Cards store on Etsy: the moon setting on the Pacific at sunrise, and the Neahkahnie cliff bathed in the light of sunset.

Two of my favorite photos. The light, the reflections, the waves, the colors—all the astonishing elements that draw me to the beach early in the morning or at the end of the day.

I started the card shop two years ago. I love sending actual paper cards to my friends, in envelopes with stamps. One day I realized I could make my own cards instead of buying them. I thought it would be fun to try something new, and I’d learn something about selling my work on line.

I sell a few cards a month at most. Not a big enterprise! But I just like seeing my cards all together, each one a little capsule of a moment when I was blessed to be there.

Visit the Well-Tempered Cards shop

Metaphor Monday #60

Last year I took a course called The Sober Life, focused on accepting and managing feelings without the help of substances. In the lesson about grief, the teacher encouraged us to create a “grief altar” in nature. I chose this rock formation at the north end of the beach, the one I call Starfish Rock. On a tiny scrap of paper, I wrote the name of a friend. It was the ninth anniversary of her death, and I still grieve. I tossed the paper into the water in front of my chosen altar.

Shortly after my dad’s death last summer, I planned to visit my grief altar and toss a scrap with his name. Because it is in the intertidal zone, Starfish Rock is often totally covered by the waves. Suddenly I worried that the tide would be too high for me to see it.

Then I remembered that there is another sacred rock formation that never gets covered by the waves, Neahkahnie Mountain itself. In the language of the Tillamook natives, the name means “place of the creator.”

I can see this mountain from my kitchen table where I am writing this. I can see it from all over Nehalem Bay. The waves can’t obscure it.

But sometimes the fog does.

Still, I don’t need to see Starfish Rock to know where it is under the waves. I don’t need to see Neahkahnie Mountain to feel it towering over the land/seascape. I might not be able to see the loved ones I miss, but I feel their presence everywhere.

Metaphor Monday #59 (published on Tuesday)

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- - -
PS. I switched from tiny scraps of paper to beach stones. I wanted to toss something into the ocean to mark a remembrance, but paper felt like littering. Then I got the idea of picking up small beach stones and pencilling an initial on that. It feels like dropping a coin into the collection basket. I’ve been gathering small round stones, smooth and light-colored for that purpose.

When I first came to scout out a place to live on the Oregon coast, I stayed in a vacation rental close to the north end of Manzanita Beach and took a walk there every day at sunrise and sunset. Because it was November, there were only ten hours in between, during which I worked at my remote job as an online community manager and explored the local housing options.

That’s when I first encountered this striking piece of driftwood. An upside-down tree stump, it looked like a modern sculpture. Because of the way its massive roots extended out in different directions, I started calling it The Flame. It was nearly 12 feet wide. It was my first landmark in what I hoped would become my new home. Every time I stepped on the beach, I looked for it.

A few months later, on another scouting trip, I found a house to rent in Nehalem, just down the road. I pulled up my own roots and moved. Not as close to the beach as the Airbnb, but I still drove over to the same spot for daily walks. It felt like my neighborhood. The Flame was always there.

I did notice that it was moving slowly southward, maybe a block a month. I also noticed how it got used as a base for campfires. Some of its tendrils were blackened by actual flames.

One day I found it tilted up on one side during a particularly stormy week. The beginning of the end of The Flame, I thought. It would fall apart and be washed away. Instead, it righted itself and continued its inexorable journey southward.

During the big ice storm of 2024, The Flame became a popsicle.

I continued my beach walks on the north end. After several months, I could no long spot The Flame to the south. It had moved almost a mile away, south of downtown Manzanita. I made the occasional excursion to see if it was still there, always with a little dread. I wasn’t sure how sad I would be if it was gone.

Each time, it looked a little more burned, with the trunk portion more likely to lose its integrity and fall apart.

A couple weeks ago, I discovered that The Flame has been turned into a driftwood fort. It’s probably not going to last much longer. I can see the burned sections giving way.

Initially, this made me angry. Did no one want to preserve The Flame besides me? But I have to admit that The Flame makes a good fort, the kind I would have built when I was a kid growing up near the beach in South Florida, if only we had driftwood like this.

It’s not impermanence that makes us suffer. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not. – Thich Nhat Hanh

One of my favorite quotes—and a reminder that driftwood drifts. I’ve followed others and given them names, like Driftzilla and Big Log, but The Flame is my favorite.

Metaphor Monday #58

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This image is abstracted from a photo I took at dawn a week ago. My eye was drawn to the textures in the lower left corner. I cropped the photo to the abstract above, and then filed it away and forgot about it.

But the iPhone photo widget, which randomly displays a different photo on my home screen, keeps featuring. It’s become like a painting that I keep returning to admire. The bright sky blue surrounded by dark cloud blue and peach dawn light is even more interesting with the texture of rippling water and sand ridges.

I didn’t think it was a particularly remarkable photo at first.

The abstract is a small rectangle of the full-size photo and it doesn’t have enough resolution to be printed. I am inspired to take more close-ups of the light reflecting on the water and sand.

Metaphor Monday #57 (but published on Tuesday)

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I’m no churchgoer, but on Easter morning, I headed to a place that feels sacred to me, the Short Sand Beach Trail. It’s a short trail to a short beach, nestled in a cove, hidden between two cliffs. It’s a short drive there, too.

The trail goes through an old-growth forest that is deep and green and mesmerizing. These trees! I look at that web of roots and admire them for finding a way to grow, despite obstacles.

When I was a kid, I had a very narrow idea of how a tree should look. Every tree had a trunk. One trunk that grew straight up from the ground.

Along the Short Sand Beach trail, there are lots of trees growing out of other trees, with multiple trunks combining together and winding up to toward the sun however they can get there. A good metaphor for resilience and the capacity to overcome difficulties.

Metaphor Monday #56

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I was in Portland last week. One of the fun things I did there was a little online watercolor lesson with my sister and one of our good friends. The teacher, Kristin Van Leuven, does a series called 100 Tiny Paintings for her Patreon supporters. We did a couple of lessons from the series, following Kristin’s detailed instructions. I was kind of amazed at how nice my little 3” x 3” watercolors turned out in such a short time, considering that I haven’t taken a painting class since elementary school.

When I got back to the beach, I noticed the view in a different way. The little watercolor class had opened my eyes to the layers of color and light. The cloud shapes looked like they were created with brush strokes. I wanted to try to paint this, so here’s my attempt at recreating Saturday’s view of the beach and Neahkahnie Mountain, as pictured at the top.

It looks darker and stormier than the actual day. I have a lot to learn! I’ve signed up for Kristin’s Patreon now, so I can continue with the lessons. I’ll share my progress with future watercolor attempts.

Metaphor Monday #55

It used to be crocuses or cherry blossoms or Easter candy on the shelves. Now I look for the little blue sailors, officially velella velella, to mark the end of winter. These unique hydrozoans live on the surface of the ocean and get tossed hither and yon by the wind and the waves. They have a sail, but no rudder, and are subject to mass stranding.

Last spring there were large swathes, inches deep. After a while, they dry out and turn white, and eventually get washed back into the ocean. These little jewels have a short shelf life.

Metaphor Monday #54

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I walked in Nehalem Bay State Park, which comprises the same beach where I usually walk, but it’s five miles further south from the mountain. It was Sunday, midday, and I knew there would be more people in my usual spot. The park is out of the way, really a long strip of sand with the ocean on one side and the bay on the other. The dunes stretch out into the distance in a fairly even pattern

On this day, when I looked at the waves, they reminded me of the dunes, blue with white caps instead of sand-colored with brown caps. They mirror each other. I don’t know why I never noticed it before. It helps to get a different perspective.

Metaphor Monday #53

I used to think there were many varieties of gulls on the beach until I did a little research. The Merlin app shows 12 photos in the listing for the Western Gull, most of them showing the younger gulls, whose plumage does not look at all like that of the iconic bright white and dark gray of the adult gull.

According to the app, it is a long journey from chick to icon:

Takes four years for immatures to progress from mostly brown to fully white and gray adult plumage; intermediate plumages are often mottled and messy.

The gull in the above photo is probably in its first year. It does look dirty. The messy middle is a thing.

In the background surf, you can also see greenish brown sea foam, which I almost never photograph because it doesn’t look “nice.” I decided to do some research about the messy foam too, instead of judging it undesirable. I learned that skeletons of phytoplankton create the viscosity that produces all those bubbles, and certain species of these single-cell plants lend the “dirty” cast we see sometimes. It’s a sign of necessary nutrients in the ecosystem, not pollution.

And the messy juvenile will eventually become that beloved boss of the beach in all its white and gray glory.

Metaphor Monday #52

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In January, I spent several days in San Miguel de Allende for an enchanting art + creativity retreat. The first day, while climbing the stairs to the beautiful light-filled art studio on the roof of our hotel, I found myself out of breath. I’m no athlete, but I can climb stairs. Another participant helpfully noted, “well, we are 6200 ft. above sea level.”

I had no idea. As someone born and raised in Florida (“The Sea Level State”), I’ve only been at altitudes above 4000 ft. a few times. And I had skipped my typical heavy-duty travel research because our retreat leader, the intrepid , is brilliant at details.

With Tammi making all the plans, I had very little of the anxiety that would normally compel me to try to find out everything I could in advance of arrival. Tammi organized the hotel and airport transportation. She told us what to bring. She never mentioned extra oxygen.

I might be exaggerating. The thin air was more novelty than nuisance. And yet, I was relieved to get back to the Oregon coast. Sea is still my preferred level.

Metaphor Monday #51

PS. Here are a few photos from the week in San Miguel de Allende
- newsprint that we painted to use for collaging (kind of like quilting with paper)
- my photo of a façade on Calle Hernandez together with my collaged recreation
- putting marigolds in the pot at the natural dyeing workshop
- a view of the mountains around the city
- gold-painted wings in a courtyard doorway

PPS. Check out Tammi’s Substack The Gold Star Diaries. You too could be captivated by her creative energy and perhaps find yourself in Mexico next time, or Paris or Morocco later this year.

I am not sure why, but I have been distracted this month. Today I decided to ignore my self-imposed Monday publication schedule and get these photos posted already. I know I have a tendency to overthink these metaphors. This is just a shallow dive into the science of light and color.

We had a stretch of remarkably clear days on the Oregon coast this month. I made it a point to get down to the beach and catch the light show at dawn. For the first time, I wondered “What makes these amazing colors appear?” And here’s what I found:

During the day, when the sun is high in the sky, shorter wavelengths of light, such as blue and violet, scatter more efficiently. This is why the sky appears predominantly blue. However, as the sun approaches the horizon during sunrise and sunset, its light has to travel through a thicker layer of the atmosphere. The increased distance amplifies the scattering of shorter wavelengths, leaving longer wavelengths, such as red, orange, and pink, to dominate the sky.

The further the light has to travel through the atmosphere, the more the blue wavelengths are scattered, allowing the colors at the other end of the spectrum to steal the show.

Of course, there is a lot more science to it. (Feel free to read up on Rayleigh scattering of electromagnetic radiation) but I have learned that when I start going down an internet rabbit hole to understand a sublime natural phenomenon, it’s time for me to end the post and click “Publish.”

Metaphor Monday #50

(Actually published on a Wednesday.)

I took this photo New Year’s Eve Eve, next to a creek that runs to the ocean on Neahkahnie Beach.

I love the shapes of these natural sand formations. I wrote about them last year when I noticed the same pattern in cirrus clouds last February. The more I looked at this photo, the more metaphors it suggested. Paths through sand that branch out, each finding a different destination, like the paths that different lives take out the chaos of the rippling swirls of water reflecting the sun.

I wanted to know whether there was a name for this formation, so I did a search. I found I’m not the only person who had this question. In an article titled “What Are These Curious Branch-Like Patterns on Oregon Coast Beaches?” the eminent local geologist Tom Horning1 explained that it’s called dendritic drainage.

“It’s a very tiny drainage system at the edges of the stream. Even more amazing, it’s not water draining out of a stream, but draining into it. You’d expect all those smaller branch-like ends to be where the water is coming out, but that’s where the water starts.”

The metaphor I had in mind doesn’t work. The drainage pattern wouldn’t be a symbol of the various paths we follow to many destinations. No, it’s the other way around. The paths lead to the creek. It could represent many starting points for many paths that eventually join together, heading to a common destination.

Metaphor Monday #49

1

Dr. Horning’s story of being a kid in Seaside during the 1964 tsunami is fascinating. It inspired him to become a geologist. I read the story in Bonnie Henderson’s book, The Next Tsunami. There’s a short excerpt on her website.

Thank you for reading my Substack—I am grateful that you have chosen to spend your valuable time and attention here. If you’d like to support my photography and writing, there are a number of ways: 1) become a paid subscriber, and receive a seasonal photo card from me with my thanks; 2) check out my greeting cards store, where you’ll find my favorite photos; or 3) send me a little tip via Buy Me A Coffee.

After so many days of winter storms, we’ve had a break in the rain and clouds. On Monday night, I went down to see the sunset with my brother and nephew who were visiting. Lots of people were visiting the town and the beach, taking advantage of the nice conditions. It was hard to get a photo with no people in it, and impossible not to have at least one dog in the frame. (Our beach is so dog-friendly, we have an annual dog festival to celebrate.)

As I cropped this photo, it reminded me of the metaphor black dog, which refers to depression. This December really laid me low. The incessant rain and wind, the short days, and the natural grief I’m experiencing after my father’s death all combined to activate what I call “sloth mode.” But the holidays with my family brought joy and the sunny days are bringing optimism. I’m looking forward to see what 2026 bring.

Metaphor Monday #48

The weather has been a lot this December. Nonstop rain, windy with gusts of 50 mph. Flooding nearby and around the region. I have hardly left the house.

Today there was a little break in the clouds when I went out to catch up on some errands, a nice reminder that the sky itself is still blue.

Metaphor Monday #47

I finally made it to the northernmost tip of the Oregon coast, Fort Stevens State Park in Warrenton. Oh my! It was exciting to be at the mouth of the Columbia River on a rainy day with 40 mph wind gusts, watching huge waves slosh around and nearly breech the South Jetty.

They don’t call it the Graveyard of the Pacific for nothing. From the lookout platform, I felt I was staring into the realm of certain death. The sign proclaims it “one of the most treacherous waterways in the world” and warns:

The jetty is NOT designed for people to stand or walk on. The jetty may be unstable. Ocean conditions can change suddenly.

Rescue is extremely dangerous after a fall into the water. Stay safe and stay off the jetty!

I spent five minutes total taking a few shots and video, before running back to my car. Yes, I was getting rained on and the wooden platform was swaying a bit in the wind, so it didn’t seem wise to linger. But really, I couldn’t tolerate the proximity to such dramatic danger. Rough seas are a popular metaphor, but seeing them up close, all I could feel was adrenaline.

I went back the next morning, when the weather was clear. The waves were big but less chaotic and I could see much farther out. I didn’t know this jetty is 6.2 miles long. This photo captures a bit of that.

Metaphor Monday #46

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Though Oregon is known for rain, November has always surprised me. It’s practically a given that it will rain on Halloween (sorry, kids!), but despite my expectations for the rain to continue, not every November day is pure gray.

I skimmed through my November photos over the years, and noted a couple of big turning points.

• November 2021: my first sober trips to the coast: (the Sylvia Beach Hotel with my niece; Cape Lookout solo).

• November 2022: The first time I rented a house in Manzanita to see if I liked it in the dark, rainy season.

I moved here in Spring 2023, and have been grateful for every November here since, including this one. We had a beautiful sunset last night (above), despite the little 🌧️ symbols on the forecast.

November 2024 sunrise, Manzanita, looking south. The colors!

November 2023 cloud extravaganza. Wet sand produces the most amazing reflections.

November 2022, when my fascination with Neahkahnie mountain began:

November 2021: 23 days sober, finding a rainbow on a sunrise walk at Cape Lookout

Wishing you a week filled with gratitude and peace. 🌊🌧️🌤️🌲. The forecast for the next three days shows 95% - 100% chance of rain. We’ll see…

Metaphor Monday #45

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In October, I challenged myself to take a walk every day on the beach, and to post a photo for accountability. My goal was to go soak up the invigorating, healing energy of the ocean, regardless of weather, tides, or mood.

It was instructive. I felt better all month. And I went out in some pretty wild weather, even if I didn’t feel like it initially.

Now, in November, we just had a weekend that did not inspire me to walk. At all. The weather was unremarkable. Not too windy. The rain was like a constant spray of thick mist. The temperature was moderate. The mountain was not visible. It was just so…gray. I hopped out of my car to take a couple photos, but I did not feel like taking a walk. I went back home, turned on the fireplace, and drank a cup of chai while wrapped up in a blanket on the couch.

Today, the sun is coming out. I can see the mountain. I’m going to take a walk after posting this. If I were to take a walk first, I would have to trash this draft . The gray world of this weekend would be forgotten, melting away like mist in the sunshine.

Metaphor Monday #44

I do like observing seagulls. I like the way they stare into the distance. They look like they are meditating. I try to emulate their focus.

This photo is from Friday, the last day of the November King Tides, on the south side of the Nehalem Bay jetties. Always an exciting place to visit if you like waves. The wild surf had tossed up an enormous tree root on top of the south jetty, and this seagull was sitting up there like it was no big deal. If I were in the business of making motivational posters, this photo would be there under the theme of “calm.”

See Metaphor Monday #14 for photos of the Nedonna Beach driftwood and jetties on a calm day.

Below, a seagull sangha (community in Buddhism), meditating together.

Metaphor Monday #43