Cape Disappointment Lighthouse
I came around the bend and there it was—the lighthouse, clinging to the cliff as if carved from the rock itself. The midday sun hung high and merciless, bleaching the headland into hard whites and deep shadows.
Below me the Pacific hurled itself at the rocks, wave after wave, each one rising with fury and collapsing into a roar that shook my chest. Spray burst upward, then slid back into the tide, ribbons of foam unraveling into the sea.
I stood still, caught between the steadiness of the lighthouse and the wild rhythm of the water. Power and grace. Violence and release. And yet it wasn’t the force of a single wave that altered the cliff, but the endless returning, the quiet insistence that wore stone into shape.
I watched, humbled. Change, it seemed, was less a sudden storm than a slow, devoted tide—an unseen hand carving us toward what we were meant to become.