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. Prices are in USD $ Giclée Stretched Canvas Print Giclee print on museum quality 410gsm polycotton canvas. Stretched on 1.5 inch pine wood and back wire. Ready to hang. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in Acrylic Print 1/8 (3mm) thick Digital grade Acrylic with back floating Frame of 1 inch thick. Ready to hang. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in Brushed Metal Print 3mm Brushed Metal Print with back floating Frame of 1 inch thick. Ready to hang. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in HD Sublimation Metal Print High Gloss Sublimation on Chromalux Panel with back floating Frame of 1 inch thick. Ready to hang. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in Giclée Rolled Canvas Print Giclee print on museum quality 410gsm polycotton canvas. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in Giclée Poster Satin Photo Paper Print Giclee print on Resin coated Satin Photo Paper 240gsm. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in Giclée Fine Art Matte Paper Print Giclee print on Fine Art Matte Paper. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in Framed Print Foam Core Print. Framed with 800-967 Black Frame Box including 2-inch White Mat Board and Plexiglass. Mounted, Ready To Hang. 12in x 9in 16in x 12in 20in x 15in 24in x 18in 30in x 23in