One Photo. Two Stories. Which Changes Everything?

Wake-Up Call #50

At first glance, it seems like an ordinary image.

And, maybe it is…

But, what if it wasn’t?

Story #1

It’s some random dog on some random beach, standing in the water. I happened to be walking by, liked the way its reflection rippled in the still water.

Kind of cool against the backdrop of the rolling waves. Something about it just tickled me.

Made me pause for a moment, and take the picture.

End of story. Life moved on.

Story #2

About a decade ago, I found myself hiding away in a tiny, bohemian town on the southern tip of the Nicoya Peninsula in Costa Rica.

Every morning, around 11am, I’d wander over to the local cafe. I’d grab a seat out front, ease into a creaky old chair, bare feet in the sand with an espresso, and watch the morning come to life. People moseying along the crushed dirt main street, locals mingling with the few visitors who weren’t dissuaded by the barely drivable dirt road that gave something resembling access to the town.

I’d settle in for much of the day, an old notebook and a #2 pencil in hand. Writing. Taking notes. Just letting the vibe pour through me.

Toward the end of the day, as the sun dropped low on the horizon and threatened to dissolve into the rolling surf, I’d throw my notebook, and whatever random book I’d been reading, into a small pack, and meander a few shops over to the beach. Easing into the 10-minute walk to my tiny palapa.

Along the way, I noticed a small dog, sweet little thing, standing at the edge of the surf looking out on the horizon. How cute, I thought. Four-footed friend who loved the sunset as much as I did. The next day, same little pup, standing in the exact same spot. Motionless. Keeping vigil over the waves. Interesting, I thought.

On the third day, same thing. I sat on the beach behind him, wondering what he saw. Lost in thought, maybe twenty minutes passed. A voice drifted into my right ear. I hadn’t noticed the older woman. Wandered upon me, sat down, and began to speak.

That’s Chico, she said. Belonged to a local kid, Diego, who loved to surf. Got Chico when he was just a puppy. They’d been pretty much inseparable for nearly a decade. Chico’s old now, but they loved each other so much.

Loved? I asked? Like, past tense?

Yes, she replied. They would come to this very spot together, nearly every day for many years. Diego loved to surf. He used to say, he was born to the water, and from it came his greatest joy. Every day, he’d paddle out and ride the waves, while Chico played on the beach. As the sun started to find its way toward the rolling surf, Diego would make his way in. Together, they’d sit on the surfboard and watch the light leave the sky. Then, they’d walk home to his mama’s hut in the village for dinner.

I guess it was maybe five years ago, she continued. The surf was rough that day. No one else went out, but Diego believed the ocean would always take care of him. He paddled out. Chico stood watch, in the very place you see him now. Waiting for Diego to come home to him. He never did. The police came, people searched, but never found Diego’s body. Eventually, late in the evening, with tears in her eyes, Diego’s mama had to pick up Chico, who was refusing to move, and bring him home in her arms.

Every day since then, just before sunset, Chico comes down to the beach, stands in the same spot you see him now, waiting for Diego to come back to him. And, every night, as the sun vanishes and the beach is lit by only the moon, Diego’s mama comes to scoop Chico up and bring his old bones home to sleep.

Over the years, we stopped calling him Chico, and started calling him Love. Because that’s what he taught us. Unconditional love.

I’m in tears, at this point. Chico is love. Devotion. Pure. Without condition.

I need to capture this moment, which I do in the image you now see. Love made visual.

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When you look at the image, then read story #1 you think, “nice, sweet,” maybe even makes you wonder what the dog is looking at. But does it mean anything to you? Speak to you? Do anything for you?

Would you want to own this image? Pay for it, even? Share it, or invite people over to talk about it?

Doubtful.

Now, how do you feel about this image, having read story #2?

If it was the tangible, visual representation, a keepsake and reminder of this beautiful story of everlasting love, everything changes.

Every time you look at it, you might feel a lump in your throat rise, and imagine the kind of love this image both evokes and shares. You might think, this is so sad, and yet so moving. I want to be reminded of this every day. I want to see this. I want to know this kind of love exists. And, I want to tell the story of Chico to everyone who sees it.

I might even purchase an artist’s print to hang on my wall, then invite people over just so they’ll ask me about it. We can have a good collective feel. And, maybe, just maybe, let it open a conversation about love, passion, devotion, longing, bittersweetness, and the true meaning of life.

And, not to get garish, but, because many of you are makers, trying to figure out how to center your creations in your living, stories often multiply not just emotional, but economic value.

If I was the photographer (I was), I might include story #2 on the placard next to the image, blown up on a wall in a gallery, to give it context and infuse it with emotion. The story wouldn’t just explain the image, it would become a part of it. Expanding and deepening the aesthetic experience. It would literally change not only the felt value, but, in a commercial context, the market value.

We pay more to feel than we do to witness or even own. When we can check all of those boxes, its a triple win.

And, as you know about me, by now. This isn’t about a photo, or a work of art, or a tale of two stories.

I mean it is, but it’s bigger than that.

It’s about life.

Life isn’t just about what we notice, what we sense, it’s about the story behind the sensation, and how it moves us.

So often, we walk through life barely seeing what’s right in front of us.

Even if we pause to look, we never move beyond the surface. The snapshot. We never wonder. We never get curious. What am I really seeing? Hearing. Smelling? Feeling? What simple grace, deep suffering, stunning moment of insight or connection—what stories—lie just beneath the surface, waiting to be revealed?

So often, we go in search of the big adventures. We leave our everyday lives, believing the simmering marrow of an extraordinary life can only be found in the domain of grand experience. That is where big lives, big stories, take root.

They can, indeed, bring all the amazement, the tales that regale and define a life.

But it’s often the simpler, quieter, more broadly-accessible, seemingly mundane experiences and stories that unfold around us every day that give us easier, more sustainable access to grace and wonder, the feeling of being alive. If only we’d pause long enough to notice, to wonder, to ask. What’s the story behind the observation, or sensation?

Don’t just hunt for the experience, explore the story.

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I know, some will now ask, so which is it? Which was the real story? One, or two?

And, to that, I’d respond…either, or neither.

The image is simply an invitation, a representation, an incantation designed to usher forth whatever story deepens your connection to meaning, to love, to life. To make you not just think, but get curious. And, feel.

The bigger invitation–your invitation–is to find the deeper thru-lines in the simple observations, moments, and interactions not in someone else’s momentary capture, but in your own life.

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Wake-Up Call #50 | The Story Beneath the Sensation

At some point over the next few days, dedicate a few moments, maybe even an hour, to pause, even better if it’s in a more public environment, and truly take in the dance of life unfolding all around you.

Notice what you see, hear, and feel. Allow yourself to wonder, “what’s the story beneath the observation? The sensation? Is there one? How can I know? A conversation? Deeper sight or listening or exploration?

What if I lingered in it longer? Would the story reveal itself, or at least more of itself?

Even if it doesn’t, what can I glean that might allow me to conjure a story about it that adds texture, meaning, maybe even a hint of wonder and joy to the experience?

How might deepening into the story change the way I’m experiencing the moment? And, how might that change me long after it meets it’s end?

There’s a certain grace in simply being in a moment. And, sometimes, with space and curiosity, that translates to meaning when you afford it the context of story.

Play with it, walk with it, noodle on it. And, as always, if you’re inclined, share your experiences, thoughts, and curiosities in the comments.