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Prologue

My wife is the artist in the family, really. But as we dialogue on the topic, the word 'art' broadens into something much more meaningful and manageable for me. Art becomes about appreciating beauty and about translating beauty into some form that others can appreciate, be it digital imagery, pencil drawing, steel sculpture, or several thousand yards of fabric in Central Park.

The Scene

Sunday was one of those days when you just want to curl up on the couch, grab a quilt, and relax. Cold, on-and-off rain and the wind rattling windows and pelting the house with branches. Not twigs, mind you. Branches. I, being male, had a great idea: "Let's go to Lake Michigan and check out the waves by the lighthouse!"

My wife was less than enthusiastic. "You're nuts," she concluded. "Leave me alone. I'm watching a movie."

"Come on," I argued, falling into my traditional role. "You'll have fun once you're there. Besides, we have to get going so we can make it there before the sun sets. I'll get your coat."

Several rounds of like conversation ensued, until she saw that I was not to be denied.

"If you get washed off the pier I'm going to laugh at you." Unless I got myself killed, in which case she promised to inflict further grievous bodily harm.

The Shore

I had never been on a beach in that much wind before, but sand moves around pretty well at those wind speeds, with predictable results: every possible spot on my body was full of sand, and my face was exfoliated for me without even using any of Jennifer's expensive cosmetic preparations. I must admit, I had a few sarcastic thoughts about spa treatments while I faced the stinging, sand-filled wind, but I refrained from voicing them out of enlightened self interest.

The strange thing, I thought, was how many of them were there. There had to be a hundred people on the beach, milling around as if it were a cocktail party and as if their faces weren't being eaten away by high-velocity silicon. Children seemed to be everywhere, some of them appearing to have dragged their parents along to the shore, but some of them stood crying, either frightened or cold, or perhaps fearful they wouldn't have skin left at the end of the day. Without getting all metaphysical (or cynical), I have to believe that sometimes it's good for us to feel small, to feel the power of the world around us. I wonder what it would be like to be this particular girl, nestled in her father's arms.

It's amazing the way the sky seems to dominate the landscape sometimes. In July, you could visit the same place (albeit wearing far fewer articles of clothing) and the sky retreats; the scene is swallowed in sand and surf and many, many people. On days like this one it's as if the wind is actually the weight of the sky forcing the earth into a smaller role. On the other hand, maybe we don't look at the sky if it doesn't press in upon us like this.

As if showing off to the assembled spectators, the sun performed a remarkable end-run around a bank of clouds, and for twenty glorious minutes, illuminated the waves and the beach in a deep golden light; a light I once claimed beloved to artists and poets. There is something of the artist in us all, and something of the poet, and when the ordinary is transformed suddenly into something almost sacred the beauty and poetry in each of us blooms like rain-fed blossoms in the desert. For moments, beauty surrounds us, and poetry flows forth from our mouths, no matter how dry the life we otherwise live. Moments like this make you want to pick up beauty and stuff it in your pocket, to carry it near you always.

Just as the sun decided to put on a show for all of us assembled there, once the sunlight touched the waves you could swear they, not to be outdone, crashed even higher. I usually don't attribute characteristics to the outdoors, but this day it seemed like the wind, the waves, and the sunlight were doing nothing so much as dancing.

I have to think, though, that there's one characteristic that's nearly always present: indifference. The waves haven't been told that they're supposed to stay on the other side of the seawall, or to stay off the sidewalk, or to play nicely with others. There is no way for us to command the waves, the wind, the sun, to cooperate with us. There is something about that wildness that appeals to me, and makes my wife think I'm a lunatic.

Epilogue

"Do you know how long it's going to take me to get the sand out of my hair? It could take weeks!"

I smiled. "But on the whole, did you have fun?"

"Well, yes, I suppose."

"And was it beautiful?"

"Yes, it was beautiful."

"And was it better than sitting home watching movies?"

"I'll let you know after I get all the sand out."1

This article is dedicated to my wonderful wife, Jennifer, my partner and friend and oftentimes deflator of my ego. I love you.

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