Once upon a time...

There was a little girl
Her father was a mighty hunter

(Another day, i shall tell you the story of when her mother brought her father a small yet powerful weapon....
But for now, know that he had this fearsome weapon.)

In their village, the mountain lions roamed the streets, and they yowled their presence.
Every night
All summer, every night.

And the little girl's father would take his weapon and shoot at them.

Every night.
All summer.
Every night.

Each evening, as the sky dropped over the village, he loaded his weapon with pebbles.
He checked the breeze
He aimed out the window
He coolly fired at the mountain lions

Every night he spent scaring them away, protecting his streets
And his wife would put her arms around him because her small children could go to sleep in peace
She was a very loving wife
But also a very tidy one

One day she was cleaning the house, and, by chance, threw away the precious pebbles

There had been peace lately in the village
But that night, the mountain lions returned
And the father reached with his right hand for the weapon
And with his left hand for the pebbles
But alas!
His left hand came back empty
And his children began crying
And the noise in the streets grew steadily louder
And his wife began to worry

So the brave father-hunter grew creative out of desperation
And he searched the room
Only to find a small pouch of sweets to suck on during illness
So he quickly loaded his weapon with the new ammunition
And commenced firing

And suddenly, there was blessed silence
He gave a smile of jubilatioin
And his children stopped crying
And his wife started humming, secure in the knowledge that her husband had once again taken care of their family

But just as the father turned from the window...
A new noise began
A deeper, rougher noise
The mother came into the room, confused

They stared out the window together
And wondered what new threat had arisen
And suddenly, they laughed
They looked at eachother and shared a small smile
"Those were not mountain lions, this time," they agreed with satisfaction
"Those were the village wolfhounds...
And they had sore throats tonight."


The End

Once upon a time

There was a small bird. She woke up early every morning to watch the sun rise and explore a new day. There was a sea to swim in and an ocean breeze to dry off in... there were small tidying chores to finish before freedom... there were other birds to chirp happy stories with. As she got older she learned it was not polite to play tricks on her nest-mates who slept late, but she could make small bird-laughs and watch while they wasted the day.

Somewhere along the years she found that there were different sorts of adventures to be had when the sun started setting. There were stars to watch... there were new evening-wind ideas to scratch down... and the night owls to talk about deep things with. And as she got older she learned it was not polite to go food-hunting when her nest-mates were slept early, but she could sing very quietly and watch while they wasted the night.

And somewhere along the years she built a new nest of her own. And she learned to not spend so much time with the owls that she neglected her sparrow friends... and she learned not to spend so much time watching the sun that she missed the moon. Or the opposite. And she learned to get enough of both... and of it all... to sing her best stories and scratch her best stories together.

once upon a time

there were three cousins who lived together. they came and they went, they walked in and walked out, but their house perched on a field corner and stayed the same. one or the other or all of them could be heard talking or humming or singing throughout the day, so the house was content. and in the rare quiet moments, trains could be heard humming past as well, because that very same field where they lived was bordered by two train tracks, and near a third. it was a perfect double triangle of a life most days, as the youngest listened to her older, wiser cousins, and watched their faces as the trains went by. and they sang, and came, and went and life traveled on. but some days the youngest cousin felt too drenched in music and too far from the trains, and she thought in triangles.

"if only the trains would run closer. if only i could run farther. if only i could sing sweeter. maybe then i would feel safer."

but one day, the oldest cousin sang her last songs, and talked her last talks, and hummed her last hums... and then she left. past one, two, three train tracks she left, and found a new house and a new life to sing and talk and hum about.

it was quieter in the house after the oldest cousin left. there were only two cousins left to make up the contentment, but they did their best, and learned different harmonies. even the trains seemed to come at different times, and the tracks rumbled in different rhythms. some days it was as if there had only ever been three tracks and two cousins... but other days all the train whistles and songs and hums seemed lonely. the almost-oldest, almost-youngest sister reminded the youngest sister to be grateful for the music and trains anyway, especially when they don't last forever.

so the youngest cousin learned to be content, even with the oldest cousin missing. she learned to love the duets all through the house and to spend long hours being peaceful with the middle cousin. and the older she got the more she realised how fragile the house and the music could be. so she soaked up the music while she could, and listened for the train whistles on the tracks by herself. and she looked at other houses nearby, because she didn't want to live with the echoes of the cousins and the trains going always away.

and then one day, the middle cousin sang her last songs, and talked her last talks, and hummed her last hums... and then she left. past one, two, three train tracks she left, and found a new house and a new life to sing and talk and hum about.

and the youngest cousin sang her last songs and hummed her last hums in an empty house, and moved to a house down the road. friends came and went, and talking came and went, but when the house was very quiet and very empty, the youngest cousin could still hear the trains echo over the roof of the cousins' old house. and she learned to sing her own songs, and to hum her own hums. and she learned to be content all over again.

Fall Cleaning


One of the biggest themes for me lately has been fall-cleaning, and not just because it's autumn. To make some very long, very overdue stories short, I will be moving apartments and adjusting to a different life here in about two weeks. Both roommates will have left to go back to the States by then, and the responsibility will be a lot more on my shoulders for my life. So many things to say that I get overwhelmed, and this is a very long update. Apologies :/

It's so odd... I keep thinking I'm growing up. And yet every time I turn around, there's something I have no idea how to do (or worse, something I didn't know I didn't know how to even start on). Paying for the utilities I had down, for example, but then had to be taught how to keep records for internet bills. The weekend my one roommate moved, I finally learned to just enjoy *being* with her and not insist on understanding. And I've since realised just how many of my friends I've been demanding with and had to go back and apologise to. I learned guitar on my own by following music moods and chords, but then asked someone to teach me a song and realised my impatience was stopping me learning. I started applying for grad school and realised I don't really know why I want a higher education. My other roommate informed me that I've actually been a stablising factor the last while, a concept so foreign that I feel like I've had to meet myself all over again!

Each new month, I think "I should send out an update, tell what's going on, what God's doing, to people who I love and who love me. I should be sending out stories to friends who like stories, who are praying for me while I'm working and learning overseas." And every month I come up with a good excuse (or several) for me not to update. For one, there are so many stories. I could write you several stories a *day*, let alone one per month. But I don't. And I could pull together photos, videos, songs, like crazy, to get across the things that grip me, the sense of urgency and time ticking down for me and others. But I don't. And I feel regretful, upset... but eventually shrug the feelings off and get back to 'real' life. Which, ironically enough, I could tell you, every month, I'm still waiting for. One of these days maybe it'll ring on the apartment buzzer like the 'poczta', mail, deliverers. Maybe 'real life' will show up in an email offer from a mentor or boss. Maybe I'll wake up some morning and KNOW, for certain, that there's a certain path I'm supposed to be taking.

I feel like I've been waiting for life to happen for a long time now. There have been plenty of reasons not to actually start it myself- lack of work details, residency and equipment delays, transitions. But, unless something major changes, I'll be headed back to the States in one week and one year. Regardless of how 'real' life was. And that's pretty sobering. I got a lot done since I've been here, but not *nearly* as much as I could have. And I made a lot of relationships, but not *nearly* as deep as I could have. And I don't want to look back on these two years and regret them. I already wish I hadn't waited this long to get serious, get joyful. But here I am now. And I'm asking you, when you pray for me, to pray that I don't go back to waiting. And I'm asking you, when you talk to me, email me, chat with me- to remind me not to go back to waiting. Because, sure, there's a time to wait, to be patient. But there's also a time when waiting is unfaithfulness. And I have no more excuses for that. So I'll be looking for you in the next unwaiting year and a week, perfect or not.



"Caleb, I don't know how to process this. This is not normal for you." "Welcome to the new normal."
- 'Fireproof'

once upon a time


there was a little girl who lived in a blue world
technically, it was a colour-mix world
but it tasted blue to her

the sky was almost always an amazing turquoise
the sea was almost always a lovely deep sapphire
and the music in her house was almost always classical

the little girl had a little mother, who loved blue
so the couches, and the curtains, and the carpets, in the house were blue with white
even the dishes in the kitchen and the sheets on the beds were blue.

every dusky blue night, the little girl climbed into a little blue bed wearing little blue pajamas.
and her little mother would come in and sing soft blue songs
until her little daughter closed her blueberry eyes and dreamed blue dreams

the end.