Living on Writer's Block

You know what that photo symbolizes?

An unfinished job. 

That’s what it means to me. 

Some people look at that and see an axe in a log, and at first that’s what I saw too. But as I looked at it longer, I saw something else in the splintered handle, the wood chips, the heavily scarred surface of the log, the split off edges and peeled bark. 

An unfinished job.

And with it I see a story.

I know the story of what actually happened — a brother spending a whole morning learning how to split firewood, and eventually, just for fun, attacking a log my father had failed to split. He went at it for nearly an hour before he was called away.

But what other stories could be behind an abandoned log like this? A woodsman, leaving in haste as his son is gravely injured? A hardworking cowboy, called away to handle some runaway animal and tragically killed in an accident, leaving his job forever unfinished? 

What other stories could be behind the pictures you see around you? The ones you know the story of, but have never taken time to look at with a stranger’s eyes? 

There is a picture on my wall. It’s not exactly mine, per se, but it’s in the house I live in. It is a picture of a man and a woman, smiling very very happily. She is in a white dress, a long white veil is behind her, and in her hands there is a bouquet of flowers. She is laughing through her smile, looking into the camera. Her hair is pulled back tightly in a bun, a hairstyle I have seen many times since then with the only noticeable change being a little more silver in it. The man is in a black tuxedo, with a small corsage in the button hole that matches his bride’s bouquet. He is smiling happily, with eyes for no one and nothing but her. 

The photo is in black and white, but it is of my parents. She made her dress herself, and her veil, and her mother probably did the flowers. I’m fairly sure my father rented the tux, but don’t quote me on that. 

The picture could be anyone. It could be much older than it actually is. It is only a little less than 20 years old. But if someone else were to see it, what story would they see there? I know their story. Do you? No. What story would you see if you looked at it? 

Below that photo, a larger one shows a family. They are in wool coats, with cozy and beautiful home-knitted hats, and they are poised in the middle of a snowball fight. In the center is the father, the man in the first picture. He is older now, with a short beard and a difference between this picture and the first that I cannot explain. He is ready to throw a snowball at a girl in a pink hat, who has her back to the camera, bending down to scoop up a snowball of her own. Behind that girl, a tall, teenaged girl in a brown hat with a pink stripe through the middle is standing, one leg bent as she walks behind her shorter sister, her hands in her pockets, watching her father. To the teenager’s right, and a few feet in front of her, there is a boy in a grey hat with a yellow stripe, poised, ready to dodge, and looking across our battlefield. His hands are low, empty, gloved against the cold. Across from him in the picture, to the left of the group, a woman stands, a ball of snow in her bare, cupped hands. She is looking towards the picture’s right edge, possibly at the boy in the yellow-striped hat, and her mouth is open in a laugh. Her body is bent backward slightly, the same way it is in the first picture, the same way it usually is when she laughs. Underneath her dust-brown hat she has grown bangs since her wedding photo and a purple scarf is around her neck. To the woman’s right is another boy, just barely smaller than his brother, in a grey hat with a wide green stripe, and his back is also to the camera. 

Four children. 

And they all have stories too. 

The girl in the pink hat is a curly-haired, fiery little rebel, highly skilled in watercolor and obsessed with photography.

The teenage girl is a writer, lazy and not incredibly inclined to socialize with strangers — unlike all three of her siblings.

The yellow-striped hat is on the head of a boy obsessed with the military and with his faith, determined to be on at least one of two very important battlefields — if he can’t manage both.

And the last child is a cuddler, impulsively running up to all members of his family and jump-scaring them with a hug.

But you cannot tell all this from a picture. Left to yourself, what other stories would you have made for the people you see? 

Pictures tell stories. Different ones to different viewers.

Look around. How many different stories can you tell about how many different pictures in your life, in the world around you?