The View From Low Tide

There’s a window that opens when the moon pulls back the water — maybe thirty minutes, maybe an hour — when the sand is still wet and the light catches everything the ocean left behind.

That’s when I go looking.

Sea glass doesn’t announce itself. We have to slow down. We have to look at the ground the way a painter looks at a canvas — scanning for the one piece of color that doesn’t belong. A soft green tucked between shells. A milky white half-buried in sand. Something the waves spent years turning from sharp to smooth.

I think that’s what all of my work is, really. Looking closely at what’s already here.

Whether I’m behind a camera at the shoreline, weaving thread through a loom, pressing paint into paper, or planting bulbs in the garden before anyone else is awake — I’m doing the same thing. Finding the beautiful thing. Picking it up. Making something with it.

That’s Beach Chair Chronicles.

It started the way most honest things do — without a plan. A photograph here, a woven piece there, a growing collection of mornings where the light was too good not to stop and pay attention. Somewhere along the way, the collection became something worth sharing.

So here we are.

This journal is where the slower stories live. Behind-the-scenes studio days. The way light shifts through a coastal afternoon. What I’m making and why. The things I notice when I’m paying attention — which, if we’re being honest, is most of the time.

A little art, a little nature — really, who knows what else.

Pull up a chair. The tide’s coming back in.