How do you view the lemons that are handed to you? Do you see the sour truth or contemplate the possibilities?
Wednesday, September 22
Meyer Lemons
How do you view the lemons that are handed to you? Do you see the sour truth or contemplate the possibilities?
Thursday, September 9
Scattered Pieces
Between the beaches and the mountains the fog churns. I sit outside the Kodak Theater in the grey, tangled in dreams of the past and present. Angela Lansbury and Lawrence Welk are sex shop doormats, and the Golden Age of this city hangs as a mink stole across my arms, tossed by the gale of a passing Porsche. I feel blindly for a totem, for time has folded up onto itself, broken into pieces and rearranged into something indistinguishable.
The ground is covered in a mosaic of small pieces, stories of dreams realized and grouted into place, stories about packing up and heading west, about leaving everything to gain something. But what happens when plans change, when the mosaic you have laid is now scattered in front of you?
"I went to film school but became known for the dinners I gave, not for my camera work. Now I am a producer of parties, with the guests and the food as co-stars." —Caterer
I gather these pieces from my once mosaic, distorted ideas that are now shrapnel. The pieces cut my hands as I am unable to let go of my design. How do I create from this brokenness?
My pieces must be sorted and rearranged into something more exquisite, to tell a story exceeding my dreams. I can't sort these fragments of my life on my own, yet the pattern of the One who knows the passions of my heart is hidden. How do I trust in the fog?
The ground is covered in a mosaic of small pieces, stories of dreams realized and grouted into place, stories about packing up and heading west, about leaving everything to gain something. But what happens when plans change, when the mosaic you have laid is now scattered in front of you?
"I went to film school but became known for the dinners I gave, not for my camera work. Now I am a producer of parties, with the guests and the food as co-stars." —Caterer
I gather these pieces from my once mosaic, distorted ideas that are now shrapnel. The pieces cut my hands as I am unable to let go of my design. How do I create from this brokenness?
My pieces must be sorted and rearranged into something more exquisite, to tell a story exceeding my dreams. I can't sort these fragments of my life on my own, yet the pattern of the One who knows the passions of my heart is hidden. How do I trust in the fog?
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