<![CDATA[Devin Peterson - DL Peterson]]>Tue, 11 Aug 2026 14:54:42 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[What Are Stories: An Essay]]>Tue, 11 Aug 2026 17:21:20 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/dl-peterson/what-are-stories-an-essayWhat are stories? They are written expressions of the soul. A story emerges from lived experience, carrying within it something of the person who gives it expression. It is not quite a transcript of the inner monologue, but perhaps a sampling of it: thoughts, memories, longings, fears, and questions given form through language. Even when an author writes about people and places far removed from themselves, something of the author remains. It can be found in the characters they love, the villains they understand, the questions they return to, the details they notice, and even the things they leave unsaid. The storyteller is there, subtly reverberating through syntax and syllable.

Perhaps this is why telling a story can be such a vulnerable act. A story is an invitation, but it can also be a test. We reveal something without explicitly announcing the revelation and then wait to see how it will be received. Do you understand? Do you see what I am showing you? Can I trust you with more? In this way, a story offers a chance to glimpse the inner mechanics of another person’s being. It does not reveal everything, and perhaps the author does not even fully understand everything being revealed, but it allows something ordinarily hidden to become visible.

Yet a story is more than an expression of its author. Though its life is derived from its source, once expressed it begins to take on a life of its own. It is not disconnected from its creator, but neither does it remain entirely under the creator’s control. The author releases it into the world, where it encounters the imagination of the reader. There it risks being misunderstood, misrepresented, or misconstrued. The reader may discover exactly what the author intended, or the reader may find something the author never consciously knew was there.

Still, the story can never entirely escape its source. However far it travels, something of its maker remains within it. The voice may be subtle, buried beneath characters and metaphors, plots and places, but it continues to reverberate through the work. Creation carries the imprint of its creator.

Perhaps this is why stories have always mattered so deeply to us. We are creatures who create, and in the things we create we leave traces of ourselves. Every story leaves its storyteller, but no story leaves empty-handed; it carries something of its maker into the world.

And perhaps there is something even deeper happening. Beneath all our stories may be an older story still: the story of creatures who have wandered from their Source and spend their lives trying to find their way home. Perhaps, whether the storyteller recognizes it or not, every story is in some sense the soul remembering its Source.

Every story bears witness.
]]><![CDATA[Unexpected Gratitude: An Essay]]>Wed, 09 Aug 2023 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/dl-peterson/unexpected-gratitudeGratitude is a peculiar thing: often, it’s the very thing that we thought was a problem that we become most grateful. Likewise, that which we strive for, believing that it will somehow add value, often proves to be a curse. The reality is we rarely know what we actually want until we come face to face with an inescapable situation. In the event that we have worked to established a thing, one that does not prove to be what we really wanted, we suddenly wish for something else - usually something simple and more manageable.
On the other hand, those moments and objects that we come to hold most dear, are those which spring upon us in ways that we never would have expected. We strive to control the factors surrounding our traditions, rituals, and memories, but it’s when we take a step back and observe that which is, rather than that which we desire to be, that we understand the less control we attempt to invoke, the more pleasant and more palatable the result. Life is not a sequence of planned events, rather it is a vast series of unexpected realities, that are, at times, influenced by our choices and desires. More than authors, we are interpreters translating the signals and stimuli that cross our sensory paths. The more we can speak to these events, the more we may feel a sense of control. But, every event and experience that we encounter contains the predictable inevitably of the unpredictable. We never know when the events before us will drastically shift in a different direction. It is in these moments that are gratitude is tested. Usually, we show our appreciation when things turn out the way we hoped they would, or at least close. But this is not so much gratitude as it is a sigh of relief that we still have control in our lives and experiences. True and pure gratitude is a much different sort. The truly gracious person appreciates whatever gift the moment produces, understanding that life is the giver of the gifts that we need. Since need is different that want, we are not always enthusiastic about the reception, but grateful nonetheless. There is a common misconception that gratitude should be accompanied by happiness in the moment, but this is not necessarily the case. One should show gratitude even in the midst of despair. Every event in life is a lesson to be learned, and our gratitude should focus on this reality. We may not be happy about the lesson, and most probably won’t be, for if we were happy about it, it is probably a lesson that we have already learned. We are not happy about that which has yet to be learned, because we are aware that this quality is a substance to which our soul is void. This is not a realization that brings about the emotion of happiness. However, for the sojourner who desires to grow, this understanding should produce gratitude in the fact that life has opened a path toward growth in a direction that we were not headed before.
]]><![CDATA[The Memory in Music: A Poem]]>Tue, 08 Aug 2023 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/dl-peterson/the-memory-in-music​There lies in rhythm a hippocampus,
​which relentlessly recalls the former.
The past and present stand chiasmus;
whispers of that which was. 
Summer warmth and children’s laughter hide within every note.
The movements of the soul’s lost dance, divulge through tearful sighs. 
Steady vibrations caress the heart; piercing through the bone. 

We see through sound and feel through light permeating through brass and string. 
Artists play what stirs the heart and makes the widow sing.
The fading glow of past lives lived out of grasp and reach.

​Though, for this one moment time stands still and those that were do breach. 
The joy that flows through music played, sends shivers up the spine.
​To touch and kiss, just one last time, that sound which was once mine.
]]><![CDATA[Priceless Treasure: A Poem]]>Tue, 22 Nov 2022 15:57:23 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/dl-peterson/priceless-treasure-a-poemSeven seas and countless mountains circumvent the globe. Far stretched fields and highland hills clothed in grassy robes. 

Snow topped peaks and hell bound pits give much to search and find, an artist’s stroke on every turn; His autograph there signed. ​
Yet all that lies and fills the space holds nothing to compare, the captivation of your glimpse no sight has been so fair. 

To seek for more than distant look puts brave men’s pride to shame, yet risking pain involved in shun one dares to ask your name. 

What’s found is more than might expect from such a daunting catch, beneath these pools of crystal specs a lovely soul to match. 

While most good things there to explore and further venture in, prove their imperfections true; mere shells of white-washed skin. 

To you that rule does not apply; exception marks your steps, for truly you are greater still beyond what meets the eye. ​

All Rights Reserved. ©2022 Devin Peterson 
]]><![CDATA[The Heirloom: A Short Story]]>Wed, 18 Nov 2020 14:20:07 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/dl-peterson/the-heirloom-a-short-story​     There was something terribly wrong with that woman. I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on her. Her complexion was opaque, and her eyes were glazed over. She was frail but perfectly competent. In fact, one might even wonder if her faculties weren’t far superior to the average human being. She appeared to look through you, as though to know your secret sins.
     I couldn’t help but connect her presence in my life to the events that were unfolding right before my eyes. It was midnight, and I had fallen asleep at nine o’clock in the evening. It wasn’t like me to turn in this early, but I was so sleepy and kept nodding off. But, at precisely 12:00 am, I was thrust awake by the sound of my closet door creaking. My eyes shot open, and I attempted to gain my composure. I stared at the door. It was ajar, but that wasn’t altogether uncommon. Countless times the hem of my bathrobe, which hangs on the inside of the closet, gets caught causing the door not to close properly. I closed my eyes and attempted to fall back to sleep. Creak. There it was again. Unmistakable. Something inside my closet was pushing the door from the inside. I sat up in my bed, my eyes glued to the shadowed doorway. The opening was gaping now, but I could not discern what was inside. Curiosity had its deep grips in me, but a greater fear was winning the fight. I crawled out of my bed and laid down on the floor; the bed between me and the door, all I could see was the closet from under the bed skirt. Creak. The door opened further. Any question of imagination fled from my mind, except that which recalled every horror movie that I had ever seen. I was still, frozen in place. Suddenly, I felt as though I wasn’t alone, as though some presence was sharing my air. I remained silent and listened. Then, a subtle, yet pronounced whisper tickled my ears. I couldn’t discern what it was saying, it spoke in some foreign, yet familiar tongue. Petrified, I placed my hand over my mouth to muffle the rush of sound that was inevitable to exit my throat. As I moved my hand toward my mouth, I brushed up against something heavy, dangling around my neck. I grabbed ahold of it and examined it. How did this get here? Where did it come from? When did it get placed around my neck? Suddenly I remembered where I had first seen it. It belongs to her. The woman. But not just any woman. This woman was my fiancèe’s grandmother, although, she looked old enough to be his great-grandmother. At least. I’ll never forget the first day that I met her. My fiancee, then my boyfriend, picked me up at my house and took me to his parent’s place. I walked in the door, greeted by my future in-laws. That’s when I first saw her. She was seated at the dinner table in the conjoining room, just staring at me. By her appearance and dress, she reminded me of one of those fortunetelling games that you might see at an arcade. I envisioned an old worn sign above her head that read, “The Great Zoltan.” She didn’t move, just sat and stared. I began to wonder if she was dead. As eerie as she was, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. Trying my best not look at her for too long, but failing miserably. 

     “Nora!” My obviously annoyed boyfriend snapped. 

     “What?,“ I asked dazedly and confused. 

     “Are you going to give me your coat?” He asked.

​      “Oh yeah, here.” I removed my coat and gave it to his awaiting hand. 

       “I asked you like three times, what’s going on with you tonight.” He asked slightly concerned and completely agitated. 

     Admittedly I had been acting a bit unusual that evening. It wasn’t my fault though. Something inside me felt, off. 

     “What were you staring at?“ ”He looked at around the corner at into the room, which he couldn’t see from where he had been standing. “Oh, that’s just my grandmother, do you want to meet her.” I honestly wasn’t sure. But before I could answer, he took me by the hand and guided me to her. 

     “Bunica, aceasta este prietena mea Norei.” I didn’t understand him because he spoke to her in Romani chib, or Romanian, which was her native language. 

     She didn’t move. I feared that she might have died and no one had noticed. She certainly looked the part of a corpse. 

    He placed his hand on her back, “Bunica!” As if yelling louder would wake the dead. “Bunica!”

     The third time must have been a charm because she snapped her head around to where we were standing and stared deep into my soul. Her breathing didn’t change, nor her position, only the direction of her smolder. It wasn’t until that moment that I noticed a beautiful ruby necklace dangling down her chest. I couldn’t help but gaze at it as it glimmered in the light of the room. I was no stranger to gems and Jewlery, but something about this particular piece was unique. It was a deep red, almost like the tent of fresh blood. He tried again, “aceasta este prietena mea Norei.” which I assume meant something about who I was and why I was there.

     She reached out, grabbed my hand and held it in hers. Her hands were old, cold, and clammy. After a few seconds, which seemed like ten or fifteen minutes, she spoke, “ceea ce este în mine, acum trec la voi.”

    I jumped. It was as if her words were somehow inside of me. I shot a look my boyfriend; I needed to know what she had said to me. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “She’s a crazy old bat, who knows what she’s rabbling on about half the time.” 

    I quickly relieved my hand from her grip, and she returned to her previous focal point. Dead ahead. Emphasis on dead. My boyfriend and I left the room and enjoyed an evening with his parents over dinner. We ate in the kitchen and, surprisingly, his grandmother didn’t join us. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see much more of her after that night. She was around, but no one really interacted with her much. On the car ride home I asked my boyfriend about her. 

     “To be honest, I don’t know a lot about her. I know that she use to be a circus performer or something. I think she read people’s fortunes.”

     “That’s so funny! I thought she looked the part.” 

     “Yeah, my dad’s family were all from Romania. I vaguely remember him telling me stories about how people would come from all around to have their palms read and speak to their dead relatives or something like that. Personally, I don’t buy into all of that, but its a pretty big deal with my family’s culture.”

     “Well, I think its cool. I’d love to talk to her more about it.” I was genuinely interested.

     “Yeah. I wouldn’t recommend that.” He said hesitantly. 

     “Why not?”

      “She’s kind of crazy now; my parents say that she talks to people who aren’t there and is always rambling on about things that make my parents very uncomfortable. She’s kind of a burden on my folks. She’s really old, and they don’t totally know what to do with her.” He said concentrating on the road, wet from the pouring rain. 

     “Why don’t they put her in a home?” I asked with concern. 

     “Yeah, Romani’s don’t really do that. Families take a lot of pride in taking care of one another, its just kind of the way that we are.” 

      “Well, that’s sweet. What was up with that Ruby necklace around her neck? That thing must have cost a fortune.” I asked, awaiting some exciting story about a beloved family heirloom. 

     He looked at me puzzled, “What necklace?” 

     “The Ruby necklace that she was wearing. You couldn’t have missed it, that thing was huge!” I asked, very confused by his question. 

     “She wasn’t wearing a necklace. She can’t afford jewelry, especially not like what you just described.” 

      “I know what I saw! She was definitely wearing a ruby necklace. It was beautiful.” I said insistently.

      “Okay, whatever you say babe.” He said with a condescending tone that I had come to loathe. 

       That was three years ago. I didn’t think much about the necklace since then. In that time we became engaged and began planning our wedding. My career as a stock-broker took off, and I had received several promotions. My partners all said that I seemed to have an uncanny knack for predicting price fluctuations, they said it was like nothing that they had ever seen before. Tomorrow is my wedding, and I opted out of the traditional night before wedding bachelorette party. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t done that. Now here I lay, a ruby around my neck, and this thing haunting my bedroom. What is it? Why is it here? And what does it have to do with this gift: the ruby necklace?

All Rights Reserved. ©2020 Devin Peterson 
Submitted to theprose.com
]]><![CDATA[The Light of Bethlehem: A Poem]]>Wed, 12 Dec 2018 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.devinpeterson.com/dl-peterson/the-light-of-bethlehem-a-poemLong ago, one winter’s night,
there came about a mystic sight.
In the midst of dark despair,    
a shining beacon, beyond compare. 

It spoke of hope and peace to all;
all those who answer its fair call.
Pointing toward a stable manger;
housing Christ, the infant stranger.

The luminous grace of that great star gave way to His forthcoming scar. And with the sound of life's first cry; that star above did surely die.

Now each and every Christmas season lights are strung for one great reason. To remind us of that Holy night; when all our souls were made upright.

All Rights Reserved. © 2018 Devin Peterson]]>