My Window on the World

Last month, on a 10 day trip from Spokane to Seattle, we found the perfect beach cottage.

Down a back road on a 20 mile strand that juts into the Pacific Ocean from the Washington coast, we spent two and a half days watching the sky turn infinite shades of winter blue/grey. Perched on the edge of sand dunes we waited for a glimpse of sun that never fully appeared.

Late one afternoon, we stood on the shore with our backs to a 20-MPH wind -- our jackets whipping around us like coast guard warning flags -- we could barely hold ourselves upright. The wind blew swirls of sand across the beach -- creating moving patterns that reshaped themselves and appeared over and over again -- sand amoebas moving off into the distance. The sound of the wind merged with the power and noise of the surf -- there was no other discernable sound -- just this roar of nature. Even the birds were silent. As far as we could see in both directions, we were the only people on the beach.

We felt like we were standing back in Minnesota, bracing ourselves against a whirling winter white-out. We laughed at the irony of it. But if we squinted just perfectly, it was sand. And it was snow. An exquisite lenticular image.