Tag Archives: storytelling

this specific corner; that specific room


It ordinarily ends in this specific corner of that specific room.
The very first evening ended in that space;
this one did too.
Time lies but this corner does not.
Suddenly new yet very familiar.
Children asleep,
dinner settling,
dessert in process
with a final matching mug or glass.

A chair is pulled up closer, but not too close,
even distance in inches matter.
A reachable circle for the conversation,
and the laughing,
and the impressions:

the toothless, tooth-brushing PSA.
the self, that one time in the middle of that one story.
that customer who opened with the confusing concern.
that student.
that voice.
that dynamic with those relatives.
that signature characteristic.

and the repeated jokes:
likely jokes not actually funny,
but jokes always grow into their own funny the later they emerge in the evening.

It is a treasure buried in the middle of a field, though;
true every single time.
Safe now, later in the evening,
smelling like people smell at the end of the 14 hours
when spare deodorant is actually not in the glovebox,
and the meeting sprawled too late to manage a swing by any corner store
on the way to this specific corner.

Safe now, later in the evening, after a perfect meal over which the melody of
perhaps some shared camaraderie,
perhaps some shared hilarity,
perhaps some disagreement,
perhaps some agreement of disagreement,
perhaps some thick and layered asking of what the hell we are doing,
perhaps some thick and layered asking of what the hell we are trying to do,
and what it is we are trying to chase after,
after all…

where were we?…

Safe now, later in the evening, after a perfect meal over which the perfect melody of
a treasure buried in the middle of the field.

Noticed now,
in this specific corner of that specific room.
Laughter and my own genes have left me sweating.
Food and beer have left me full.
Humanity and honesty,
Pretense prevented by exhaustion,
leave me speaking thanks out loud in between audible laughter
while driving home with a 14-hour smell that is not very funny.

After noticing that I’m sitting in this specific corner of that specific room,
the loud response in my cloudy thoughts is a refrain that continues to say,

Thanks be to God.

Pine Tree Dr.

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monday morning mash | stunning work and redefining art in life

Over the last week, there were a few different works of art, all different in style, which reminded me again how much I appreciate the diversity of our histories and stories, and therefore our perspectives and needs to narrate. Nothing crazy, just a few works of art I found stunning.

To think of endless concrete barriers as an opportunity to use childhood memories, illusion, and skill to create a shared asphalt gallery…

To photograph happy and loving families who can quickly put everything they own in front of their homes, and to view them with some sense of envy rather than any sense of pity while taking in the photograph…

To catch a glimpse of a world that from one corner is everyday and from another seems like it’s only from a cartoon, reminding that there is so much more that is so very real than we can even begin to imagine.

Good art. Good perspectives. Good stories.

Mashed together for Monday morning. A Monday Morning Mash.

Click the title or image to see the collection. Post your own in the comments.


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Pine Tree Dr.

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when there’s nothing to fight for

When there’s nothing to fight for
nothing to be enamored with
nothing to move into
nothing to be about
nothing to sing of

When we are bored
with the little tales
we tell ourselves

that’s when we fight against.
that’s when we tear down.
that’s when we go after.
that’s when we go under.


There is enough to be fighting for
There is enough to be enamored with
There is enough to move into
There is enough to be about
There is enough to sing of

So when we find ourselves fighting against, tearing down, going after, going under
Give us a glimpse of the kingdom

and we shall sing again.

Pine Tree

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thanks, London.

I feel an increasing struggle as to what it means to be who we have each been called to be, but only in the context of a grander story, the story of the world, and even bigger than that, the story of God and what he has been all along and is now doing in the world.

It’s a struggle worth increasing struggle.

In London’s closing ceremony, all the pieces made the whole. All the pieces, faces, names, styles, dances, artists made a fascinating whole. They, with the opening ceremonies, told a story of the global mark made by individuals, groups, artists, authors, doctors, and stories. There were videos, moving sculptures, light shows…each only briefly, artistically, dramatically and perfectly making their entrance, momentary dance, and exit from the stage.

In sharp contrast to the awe-inspiring show of Beijing’s ceremonies, the spectacle was made in different ways. Beijing had the lights and the smoke and the choreography and the music, but no names, no celebrated players, no celebrated individuals making celebrated marks. A show can be made without characters, but a story cannot be told. Something no doubt was missing. But the celebration of only individuals, often our problem in the West, leaves a similar emptiness.

But a single story told by the voices of many characters… One story of humanity trying its best, with glimpses and mumblings––like the olympics––to tell a single story well together. A story of individuals making marks on a bigger storyline being written of what God is doing in and for and with the world.

Till kingdom comes.

Thanks, London.

Pine Tree

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our stories are close together


The stories are always close together;
Whether banked on the west coast looking out over the Pacific
or banked on another west coast looking out over the Atlantic.

Stories of trial and error
hope and defeat
attempt and confusion
love and war
peacemaking and peacekilling
connectedness and isolation
restful work and work gin rest
redemption and destruction

an undercurrent of longing
that someone else
on one coast or another
resonates with the stories we keep
shackled behind our eyes––

stories remarkably close together––
even with miles of history or miles of dirt between.
but we keep them to ourselves
because our story, we’ve been told,
is the only one that looks this way.

and so we imagine the space between our stories
that was never there to begin with.

Our stories are always close together.

Napa Valley


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