The Alphabet Man

One evening, while wandering north of Milwaukee along the bluffs above Lake Michigan, I came across him — sitting quietly at Atwater Park, high above the water, facing east.

A figure made entirely of letters.
Still. Watching. Waiting.

Right away, I knew this was a sunrise conversation.

I started imagining how the light might meet him, how morning would move across the lake, how the scene might shift if I returned before the day began. Dawn felt essential. I just had to make the time — soon.

Luckily, the weather agreed. Clear skies were forecast for the next morning, and I was living close enough to arrive well before sunrise. That night, sleep came lightly. Finding something this unexpected — this quietly strange — does that to me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Morning arrived quickly.

I gave myself a short window — maybe fifteen minutes — to move, adjust, and see what the light wanted to do. I circled slowly, shooting from different angles, letting the scene unfold rather than forcing it. I took several photographs that morning, but two stayed with me. They still do.

At first, I focused on the feeling.

For me, the Alphabet Man holds unanswered questions — the kind we carry quietly. He seemed to be looking toward the sunrise, as if waiting for clarity, or maybe permission, or maybe nothing at all.

Then something unexpected happened.

As I moved behind him, the light began to bounce off the water in two distinct places, rising up through his body. It felt uncanny — almost precise — as if the reflection was illuminating energy centers within him. Root. Solar plexus. Third eye. The timing, the placement, the calm intensity of it all stopped me in my tracks.

It felt like a message — or at least a reminder.

As if the letters that make him whole need the light to come together.
As if answers arrive only after waiting.
As if some things can’t be rushed.

Even now, years later, I feel that same quiet joy when I look at these images. Discovering something unusual — even if it’s only unusual to me — leaves a lasting imprint. I remember the air, the stillness, the way the lake held the light, as if it all happened yesterday.

That morning reminded me why I wander.
Why I return again and again to the edges of the day.
Why I trust curiosity to lead.

Sometimes, the work isn’t about finding answers —
It’s about showing up early enough to notice when the light arrives.