Mujō: When the Coast Reminds Us Nothing Stays the Same

Reflections on Hurricane Isaias, impermanence, and a lifetime along Florida's Gulf Coast

The evening before Hurricane Isaias arrived on Florida's Gulf Coast, the sky gave us one of the most extraordinary sunsets I have ever seen. The colors were remarkable, and I couldn't help wishing I were standing on the beach with my camera to capture them. But with a hurricane approaching, the roadways needed to remain clear for those who needed to evacuate. As much as I wanted to photograph that beautiful sky, it simply wasn't practical, and I had to be content with watching it from where I was.

Beneath that magnificent sunset, I felt a great deal of trepidation. I knew what hurricanes were capable of, and I wondered what the coming hours might bring to this coastline I have loved for most of my life. I worried about the people and communities in the storm's path, but I also found myself thinking about the beaches, the familiar dunes, and the places that held so many memories.

I knew that hurricanes had been reshaping these shores for centuries. The barrier islands and beaches along the Gulf are continually changing, shaped by the wind, waves, tides, and occasional powerful storms. Understanding that is one thing, though. Watching a landscape you've loved your entire life change almost overnight is something else entirely.

There is a Japanese word, Mujō (無常), that describes the impermanence of all things. I would find myself thinking about its meaning as I walked the beach in the days following the hurricane, seeing firsthand how much could change while so much remained familiar.

As Isaias approached, I found myself remembering Hurricane Opal, which struck the Florida Panhandle in October 1995. On Okaloosa Island, the barrier island stretching between Fort Walton Beach and Destin, there once stood an enormous sand dune known locally as the Matterhorn. It was one of those landmarks that seemed as though it had always been there and always would be. I had played on those dunes as a child, and years later, my own children played there too.

When Opal came ashore, it dramatically reshaped the island. Towering dunes were washed away, and enormous quantities of sand were carried across the barrier island toward Choctawhatchee Bay, leaving areas of the bay much shallower than they had been before. The Matterhorn we had known, a place that held generations of childhood memories, was gone in its familiar form. I knew, of course, that barrier islands are constantly evolving, built and reshaped over time by wind, waves, currents, and storms. But it is one thing to understand those natural processes and quite another to watch a familiar piece of your childhood disappear.

Nearly thirty-one years later, Hurricane Isaias brought those memories rushing back. We had just visited Shell Island near Panama City with our grandchildren in July, and now the hurricane had dramatically reshaped parts of that beautiful barrier island. Storm surge and waves had washed sand across the island toward the bay, much as Hurricane Opal had done on Okaloosa Island years before. It made me wonder what changes awaited us on the beaches closer to home, and which familiar landmarks might no longer be there when we returned.

There was one particular dune I wanted to find. For years, I had watched and photographed an old weathered tree that stood among the white sand dunes. Long since dead, it had become a beautiful piece of driftwood, its branches bleached by the sun and shaped by years of salt air and coastal weather. Something about its weathered form had always appealed to me, and I had returned to photograph it many times.

One of those photographs eventually became my Coastal Sand Dunes — Driftwood glass print, capturing the quiet beauty of that familiar landscape beneath a softly colored evening sky.

I wondered whether the driftwood would still be there after Isaias. To my surprise, it was. The familiar branches remained, reaching across the sand much as they had before, but much of the dune beneath them had washed away.

I stood looking at that old tree, marveling at what had remained and what had changed. The driftwood, weathered and seemingly fragile, had survived the storm, while the great mound of sand that had supported it had been dramatically altered. It struck me that the photograph I had taken before the hurricane now preserved more than a beautiful coastal scene. It held a particular moment in the life of that shoreline, a landscape that would never exist in quite the same way again.

A little farther along the beach, another scene caught my attention. A great blue heron was standing beside a shallow tide pool that had formed after the storm. Across the water, a large green buoy lay stranded on the sand, its chain trailing beside it. The contrast was remarkable. The buoy was unmistakable evidence of the powerful water that had moved through the area, yet the heron seemed perfectly at ease, quietly going about its business in a landscape that had so recently been transformed.

I watched the heron for a while, thinking about how much had changed in such a short time. The shallow pool was new, the buoy was far from where it belonged, and the shoreline around them had been rearranged. Yet there was something reassuring about seeing the bird there, simply carrying on with its life.

What surprised me most that day was the water. After all the tremendous energy of the hurricane, the Gulf had become almost unbelievably calm. The waves were gentle, and the water was so crystal clear that it was difficult to imagine the violence of the storm only days before.

My sister and I had gone hoping the hurricane might have brought some unusual shells ashore, perhaps treasures from deeper water or places the currents wouldn't ordinarily carry them. We weren't disappointed. Among our discoveries were a beautiful royal starfish, a shark eye, a lettered olive, and several common nutmeg shells, along with other lovely treasures scattered along the beach.

Some of the most beautiful shells we encountered were still occupied by their living inhabitants. As much as we wished we could keep them, we gently placed them back where they belonged. There is something wonderful about finding an extraordinary shell, but even more so when you discover that the little creature that made it is still very much at home.

And then there were the butterflies.

Autumn is a special time along the Gulf Coast, when migrating butterflies pass through the region on their seasonal journeys. That day, we saw monarchs and what I believe were Gulf fritillaries. I found myself wondering how such delicate creatures had managed through the hurricane. Had they found sheltered places to wait out the wind and rain, perhaps hunkering down as we had while the storm passed? Or had they arrived afterward, continuing their journey once the weather had improved?

I couldn't know the answer, but I marveled at their presence. After everything that had happened along the coast, there they were, their delicate wings carrying them onward through the autumn air.

It's one of the things I love about fall along the Gulf. There is always something changing, often in ways we don't immediately notice. In an earlier Coastal Journal article, The Gulf Has Its Own Autumn Language, I wrote about the seasonal changes that make this time of year so special, from golden sea oats and migrating butterflies to the softer light and quieter beaches. This particular autumn had simply reminded me how quickly and dramatically those changes could sometimes arrive.

Mujō (無常), pronounced moo-JOH, is a Japanese word rooted in Buddhist philosophy. It describes impermanence, the understanding that all things are subject to change and that nothing remains fixed or unchanging forever. The idea has influenced Japanese thought, literature, and art for centuries, encouraging an awareness of the passing nature of life and the world around us.

I have always found that idea particularly meaningful when I think about the sea. Every tide leaves the shoreline a little different. Waves carry sand away and deposit it elsewhere, dunes slowly grow and shift, and even the seashells we treasure are gradually worn and transformed by the water. Change is woven into the very nature of the coast, although most of the time it happens so gradually that we barely notice.

Hurricanes remind us that change isn't always gradual, nor is it always gentle. Sometimes it comes with frightening speed, taking homes, familiar places, and sometimes lives. Recognizing impermanence doesn't make those losses easier or mean that we should somehow find beauty in the destruction. There is real grief in losing the places and things we love, especially when they have been part of our lives for generations.

But I think there is another side to understanding Mujō. It reminds us to appreciate the moments we have while they are here, knowing that no particular sunset, stretch of shoreline, or season of our lives will ever be repeated in exactly the same way.

As I thought about that walk with my sister, I realized how much of my connection to the Gulf Coast has been shaped by those moments. The dunes where we played as children, the beach weddings and family gatherings, the afternoons spent watching my children and grandchildren in the waves, and the countless times I have stood behind my camera trying to capture something beautiful before the light changed.

I have photographed this coastline for years, drawn to its ever-changing light, its extraordinary colors, and the quiet beauty found in even the smallest details. Perhaps that is part of why photography has always meant so much to me. A photograph allows us to hold on to a particular moment, even as the world around it continues to change.

When I think back on our walk after Hurricane Isaias, it isn't only the altered dunes that I remember. I think of that old driftwood still resting where so much of the sand beneath it had disappeared. I remember the heron beside its temporary tide pool and the enormous buoy stranded on the beach. I remember the shells we found, the ones we carefully returned to the water, and the butterflies making their way along the coast.

Most of all, I remember the extraordinary calm of the Gulf, its crystal-clear water moving gently over a shoreline that had endured such tremendous force only days before.