S. Bobby Alexander's Blog

When my children grew past nursery rhymes and fairy tales, we found ourselves on a new shelf: poetry. That’s when Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends entered our lives.

I can still picture it — the way their eyes lit up as his crooked lines broke apart the neat rhythms they were used to. The words tumbled into absurdity, wonder, and questions that clung long after the book was closed. What began as bedtime reading became something more: proof that imagination doesn’t need permission, only a spark.

For me, it was also a quiet confirmation of something I had long believed but hadn’t named: that the stories we carry really do shape the lives we live — not only our own, but the ones we share them with.

Sidewalks, after all, are supposed to be safe. Straight. Predictable. The poured paths someone else laid down for us. They don’t ask questions. They don’t leave room for wandering. They give the illusion that everything important can be neatly contained between the curb and the fence line.

But Silverstein pointed toward the edge. And the edge is where things get interesting.

When the sidewalk ends, the script falters. There’s no map, no curb to guide your steps, no certainty that the ground ahead is level. It’s unsettling. And yet — it’s also the only place you discover what imagination is really for.

That book was supposed to entertain my kids. Instead, it reframed something for me: sidewalks are the life we inherit. The space beyond them is the life we choose.

And that, I think, is where so many of us get stuck. We confuse safety with meaning. We tell ourselves that staying between the lines is the point. But the stories that linger — the ones that take root in our children, our friends, our own late-night reflections — are almost always born at the edge, where something ended and we had to improvise the next step.

The older I get, the more I’ve come to believe that this is what art is really for. Not to pave over life with something smoother. Not to offer escape routes that keep us comfortable. But to hand us back to ourselves when the sidewalk runs out. To remind us that endings are beginnings in disguise, and that the world asks less for compliance than for curiosity.

My kids don’t remember every story we read together, but I can still hear the way they laughed at Silverstein’s bent humor, how they repeated certain phrases as if they were spells. That’s what echoes do: they don’t vanish when the page closes. They travel forward, reshaping how we notice the world, how we make sense of its dissonance and delight.

And maybe that’s the point of carrying stories at all: to name what can’t be contained in sidewalks. To give voice to what doesn’t fit neatly between painted lines. To leave behind a signal that others can follow when their own path falls apart.

Because the sidewalk doesn’t end when the builders ran out of cement. It ends because imagination begins where certainty stops.

That lesson — learned on a bedroom floor with my kids years ago — still echoes. It’s why I write, and it’s why I believe stories matter.

If this resonates, you might enjoy The Signal — my letter where I share small echoes and questions like this, meant to be carried into your own days.

The post Where the Sidewalk Ends appeared first on S. Bobby Alexander.

We spend so much of our lives trying to fill the quiet. With words, with music, with noise. We think silence is emptiness, a void to be avoided. But silence isn’t absence. It’s space — and space is where the real work begins.

Think of it as the breath between notes in a song. Without that pause, the music collapses into a blur. It’s the stillness that lets the sound carry, the emptiness that gives shape to meaning. In the same way, silence in our lives is not what’s missing — it’s what makes the rest of it matter.

We resist it because silence is uncomfortable. It asks us to sit with ourselves. It confronts us with questions we’d rather mute: Who are you when the applause fades? What do you hear when the voices go quiet? Do you trust the space enough to stay?

But if you listen long enough, silence becomes a companion. It holds the fragments of thought you haven’t put into words yet. It’s the place where ideas stretch, rearrange, and dare to take form. The real work of becoming — of art, of memory, of identity — doesn’t begin in the noise. It begins in the pause you allow.

So don’t fear the silence. Don’t rush to cover it. Step into it. Carry it. Protect it. Because silence isn’t what takes you away from life — it’s what gives you back to yourself.

So the question lingers: if silence were a companion rather than an absence, what would it be trying to tell you? This week, schedule one pocket of quiet — a walk, a morning coffee, a closed-door moment — and protect it the way you would any important meeting. Let the silence sit beside you, not as emptiness, but as presence.

We live inside stories, whether we notice them or not. Some we inherit without question. Some we tell ourselves until they harden into truth. Others arrive by surprise — in a song lyric, in the soft voice of a parent, in a line from a book that stays lodged in the heart long after we’ve closed the cover.

Stories don’t just entertain us. They guide us, unsettle us, ask something of us. They shape how we see — and in turn, how we live.

I believe stories are more than mirrors. They’re invitations. When we change how we see something, we change what it means, and how it moves through us. That is the hidden power of storytelling: it doesn’t just reflect back who we are — it asks us to imagine who we might become.

So the question is: what stories are you carrying right now? And are they still yours to hold?

Why Stories Shape Us

From the first bedtime story whispered in the dark to the family lore repeated at every holiday table, stories shape our sense of self. They tell us where we came from, what matters, and what’s possible.

A child who grows up hearing “you can do anything you set your mind to” walks into the world with a compass tilted toward possibility. Another child who only hears “don’t make mistakes” may grow cautious, hesitant to risk the unknown. Both children grow into adults who live by those scripts, often without realizing that they’re following inherited lines of dialogue.

This is why stories matter so much. They’re not simply entertainment. They’re scaffolding for identity. They’re compasses for choice.

And they’re everywhere. In books and films. In paintings and plays. In the stories we overhear on buses or tell ourselves late at night. We live through them. We connect through them. We pass them down.

“Stories don’t just reflect us — they form the lens through which we see.”

If you pause long enough to notice, you’ll realize: the story you carry is shaping the life you live.

From Reflection to Reframing

Most of us think of stories as mirrors. We see ourselves in a character or a line of dialogue and nod in recognition: yes, that’s me. But the deeper magic of story isn’t just recognition. It’s reframing.

A mirror can show you what you look like. But a story can shift what you mean to yourself.

Think of the moment a song lyric suddenly reframes a memory you thought you understood. Or a poem that lets you see grief not as an ending but as a marker of love. Or a novel where a character makes a choice you’ve been afraid to consider, and suddenly the impossible seems possible.

This is why art matters — because it reframes reality. It doesn’t just hold a mirror to what exists. It invites us into what could.

And that invitation is open to all of us. Every day, in the stories we tell, repeat, and choose to carry forward.

The Noise vs. The Signal

The modern world runs on noise. Headlines, algorithms, endless feeds — all competing to keep us scrolling, comparing, consuming. Noise can be thrilling. Noise can be corrosive.

But beneath it, there is always a signal — a steadier, quieter frequency that belongs only to you.

Stories help us tune in. They cut through the static to remind us of what’s ours. They whisper back what we thought we lost: clarity, meaning, a moment of stillness.

When I write, I’m not looking for escape. I’m tuning for the signal. I want to find that one line, that one metaphor, that one image that cuts through the noise and makes you pause. Because that pause is where we remember what matters.

Reflection Prompt: What’s the first story you remember being told as a child? And how did it shape the way you see the world?

A Practical Step: Reclaiming a Story

Here’s something small you can try this week:

Take a few minutes and write down the very first story you remember hearing. It could be a fairy tale, a family story, or a favorite book. Then ask yourself:

What was the lesson inside it?Did it make you feel safe, brave, curious, or cautious?How has it shown up — quietly or loudly — in the choices you’ve made since?

This isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about clarity. When you trace the stories you’ve been carrying, you gain the power to decide: Is this still my story? Or is it time to set it down and choose another?

Stories as Keepsakes

I often think of stories as pearls. They begin as small irritants — grains of sand inside the shell of experience — but over time, they’re layered with meaning until they become something luminous, worth carrying.

Not every story we carry is beautiful. Some are heavy. Some are jagged. But even those can be polished into wisdom if we choose to see them clearly.

That’s why I began creating “Pearls of Wisdom” cards — small, tangible keepsakes readers can post, gift, or carry as reminders. Because a story doesn’t have to stay locked inside a book. It can live in your pocket, on your wall, in the space where you pause every morning.

An Invitation Forward

Stories are the threads that bind us. They connect us to each other, to our past, and to the future we hope to create. But the truth is simple: the stories you carry shape the life you live.

So I’ll leave you with this question:

What story has stayed with you the longest — and why?

If you’d like to explore more, you’re invited to join The Signal — my monthly newsletter where I share exclusive reflections, printable Echo Lines, and behind-the-scenes sparks from my books in progress.

Because the right story, at the right time, isn’t just something to hear. It’s something to live.

 

We live inside stories, whether we notice them or not. Some we inherit without question. Some we tell ourselves until they harden into truth. Others arrive by surprise — in a song lyric, in the soft voice of a parent, in a line from a book that stays lodged in the heart long after we’ve closed the cover.

Stories don’t just entertain us. They guide us, unsettle us, ask something of us. They shape how we see — and in turn, how we live.

I believe stories are more than mirrors. They’re invitations. When we change how we see something, we change what it means, and how it moves through us. That is the hidden power of storytelling: it doesn’t just reflect back who we are — it asks us to imagine who we might become.

So the question is: what stories are you carrying right now? And are they still yours to hold?

Why Stories Shape Us

From the first bedtime story whispered in the dark to the family lore repeated at every holiday table, stories shape our sense of self. They tell us where we came from, what matters, and what’s possible.

A child who grows up hearing “you can do anything you set your mind to” walks into the world with a compass tilted toward possibility. Another child who only hears “don’t make mistakes” may grow cautious, hesitant to risk the unknown. Both children grow into adults who live by those scripts, often without realizing that they’re following inherited lines of dialogue.

This is why stories matter so much. They’re not simply entertainment. They’re scaffolding for identity. They’re compasses for choice.

And they’re everywhere. In books and films. In paintings and plays. In the stories we overhear on buses or tell ourselves late at night. We live through them. We connect through them. We pass them down.

“Stories don’t just reflect us — they form the lens through which we see.”

If you pause long enough to notice, you’ll realize: the story you carry is shaping the life you live.

From Reflection to Reframing

Most of us think of stories as mirrors. We see ourselves in a character or a line of dialogue and nod in recognition: yes, that’s me. But the deeper magic of story isn’t just recognition. It’s reframing.

A mirror can show you what you look like. But a story can shift what you mean to yourself.

Think of the moment a song lyric suddenly reframes a memory you thought you understood. Or a poem that lets you see grief not as an ending but as a marker of love. Or a novel where a character makes a choice you’ve been afraid to consider, and suddenly the impossible seems possible.

This is why art matters — because it reframes reality. It doesn’t just hold a mirror to what exists. It invites us into what could.

And that invitation is open to all of us. Every day, in the stories we tell, repeat, and choose to carry forward.

The Noise vs. The Signal

The modern world runs on noise. Headlines, algorithms, endless feeds — all competing to keep us scrolling, comparing, consuming. Noise can be thrilling. Noise can be corrosive.

But beneath it, there is always a signal — a steadier, quieter frequency that belongs only to you.

Stories help us tune in. They cut through the static to remind us of what’s ours. They whisper back what we thought we lost: clarity, meaning, a moment of stillness.

When I write, I’m not looking for escape. I’m tuning for the signal. I want to find that one line, that one metaphor, that one image that cuts through the noise and makes you pause. Because that pause is where we remember what matters.

Reflection Prompt: What’s the first story you remember being told as a child? And how did it shape the way you see the world?

A Practical Step: Reclaiming a Story

Here’s something small you can try this week:

Take a few minutes and write down the very first story you remember hearing. It could be a fairy tale, a family story, or a favorite book. Then ask yourself:

What was the lesson inside it?Did it make you feel safe, brave, curious, or cautious?How has it shown up — quietly or loudly — in the choices you’ve made since?

This isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about clarity. When you trace the stories you’ve been carrying, you gain the power to decide: Is this still my story? Or is it time to set it down and choose another?

Stories as Keepsakes

I often think of stories as pearls. They begin as small irritants — grains of sand inside the shell of experience — but over time, they’re layered with meaning until they become something luminous, worth carrying.

Not every story we carry is beautiful. Some are heavy. Some are jagged. But even those can be polished into wisdom if we choose to see them clearly.

That’s why I began creating “Pearls of Wisdom” cards — small, tangible keepsakes readers can post, gift, or carry as reminders. Because a story doesn’t have to stay locked inside a book. It can live in your pocket, on your wall, in the space where you pause every morning.

An Invitation Forward

Stories are the threads that bind us. They connect us to each other, to our past, and to the future we hope to create. But the truth is simple: the stories you carry shape the life you live.

So I’ll leave you with this question:

What story has stayed with you the longest — and why?

If you’d like to explore more, you’re invited to join The Signal — my monthly newsletter where I share exclusive reflections, printable Echo Lines, and behind-the-scenes sparks from my books in progress.

Because the right story, at the right time, isn’t just something to hear. It’s something to live.

When Life Moves Without You

Drift doesn’t happen in a single dramatic moment. You don’t wake up one morning and decide to be unmoored. It happens in inches — in the small compromises, the subtle silences, the days you tell yourself you’ll get back on track tomorrow.

We rarely notice drift when it starts. Only when we look back do we realize how far the current has carried us.

Recognizing the Current

Life has a way of pulling us into its stream. Responsibilities, routines, expectations — they all create a momentum of their own. And momentum feels safe. It feels like progress, even when it’s only repetition.

But momentum without meaning eventually empties us. It’s possible to be busy, productive, even successful — and still be drifting from yourself.

The Compass Question

The good news is that drift is not destiny. The moment you notice it, you have a chance to reset your direction. The question is simple, but it cuts deep:

Am I moving because I choose this, or because I’ve stopped choosing at all?

That question is a compass. It doesn’t give you a map, but it points you back toward presence.

A Practical Step: The Five-Minute Recalibration

This week, try this exercise:

Sit down with a notebook.Write at the top of the page: Where am I drifting right now?Set a timer for five minutes and write whatever comes. Don’t edit. Don’t justify. Just notice.

At the end, circle one line that feels the truest. That line is your signal.

From Drift to Direction

The opposite of drift isn’t control. It’s presence.
It’s choosing, even in small ways, to step back into your own life with intention.

Drift may be gentle, but so is course correction. One pause, one honest question, one chosen action — and you’re back steering again.

Invitation Forward

We all drift. The question is whether we notice in time to return.

So let me leave you with this:

What’s one small choice you can make today that belongs fully to you?

And if you’d like to keep a compass at hand — a reminder of the questions that bring you back to yourself — you can join The Signal, where I share monthly reflections, printable Compass Questions, and glimpses of what’s being written behind the page.

Because presence isn’t passive. It’s how we find our way back.

 

Life is full of sparks — quick moments that catch our attention. A line in a song that brings back a memory. The smell of coffee that carries you to another kitchen, another time. Even the wind shifting directions can be a spark, if you’re paying attention.

What matters is the echo — the resonance that lingers after the spark has passed. Sometimes it’s small, like a fleeting reminder. Sometimes it’s heavy, like a truth you can’t un-hear.

That’s what you’ll find here: short bursts and longer reflections, a mix of sparks and echoes collected from the everyday. Some are no more than a flash, others carry more weight. Just like life itself — a buffet of signals, each one dancing for your time.

The invitation is simple: learn to tune in. Notice the sparks. Listen for the echoes. Because in the end, the stories you carry shape the life you live.

 

There’s a saying I’ve always carried in the back of my mind: “I’m dancing as fast as I can.”
Another image I’ve borrowed more than once is that of a performer spinning plates — racing from one wobbling rim to the next, arms stretched, praying nothing comes crashing down. Both are pictures of the life most of us are living. Too many demands. Too little margin. Too many moving parts to track without losing ourselves in the process.

But recently, I had a day that reminded me those wobbling plates don’t always have to spell disaster. Sometimes, they’re signals. Sometimes, they’re invitations.

The Tire That Stopped Me

It started with a three-inch screw. I was running errands, rushing between one commitment and the next, when I heard the dreaded thump-thump-thump. A puncture. Three hours at the tire shop later, my day was rearranged against my will.

Normally, that would have irritated me. But instead of treating it as a robbery of time, I realized it had quietly handed me a gift: three hours to think. Three hours with no meetings, no obligations, no distractions — just me, a waiting room, and the hum of background television I could choose to ignore.

What looked like disruption was, in fact, space. I can’t remember the last time I sat with my own thoughts for that long. It didn’t feel like waiting. It felt like permission.

The Bank That Broke the Script

Later that day, I found myself standing in line at my bank. Just ahead, a young father tried to negotiate with the teller while his two small children tugged at his sleeves. His face flushed with frustration as she explained the bank’s new policy. For eight years, he’d been doing things one way. Suddenly, that path was closed. Rent was due. The system he relied on no longer worked.

His anger flared, sharp and public. I could feel the weight of his panic in the air. And I thought: this is what happens when the old script collapses. We’re all creatures of pattern. We lean on what’s familiar because it works — until it doesn’t. Then we’re left scrambling, forced into the uncomfortable problem-solving process we spend most of our lives trying to avoid.

Watching him, I remembered something my grandfather once told me: “If you always follow the same path, you just end up in a rut.”

The bank didn’t care about ruts. Neither does life.

Signals, Not Setbacks

Two moments in the same day: one quiet, one explosive. The tire slowed me down. The bank scene reminded me how violently change can rip the script from our hands. But both were signals.

Disruption isn’t just disruption. It’s data.
It tells us where we’re stuck. Where we’ve let autopilot do too much of the steering. Where we’ve confused comfort with purpose.

And that’s the overlap between disruption and creativity: both ask us to change our perspective. Creativity is not just about making art — it’s about seeing the wobble differently, finding the signal inside the noise.

My creative process is nothing more than the practice of interpreting those signals. Taking the raw material of daily life — a screw in the road, a father’s frustration, a grandfather’s warning — and asking: What does this mean? What might it teach me if I shift my point of view?

That’s what I’m listening for when I write: the signal under the wobble.

The Pearl: Expect Something to Go Wrong

Years ago, after too many long days in business, I rewired one of my deepest expectations: always expect something to go wrong. That way, I was never surprised. And when nothing did? That was a good day.

It sounds pessimistic, maybe even cynical. But I don’t mean it that way. Expecting disruption isn’t surrender. It’s preparation. It’s a way of releasing the illusion of control so you can greet the inevitable wobble without panic.

The truth is, the plates will always wobble. Tires will always puncture. Institutions will always change rules. People will always disappoint. But expecting that doesn’t drain the hope out of life — it frees you to handle the interruptions without being undone by them.

Every wobble carries a signal — if you’re willing to listen for it.

Different Ways to Steady the Plates

Over the years, I’ve gathered small practices that help me — and others — stay grounded when the wobble hits:

Pause and Breathe – Give your body a chance to catch up with your mind. Count to ten if you have to. Reset the tempo.Reframe – Ask: Is this an inconvenience or a catastrophe? Naming the scale reduces the spin.Detach – Remember: This is happening, but I don’t have to carry it. Not every problem is your identity.Flip Expectation – My pearl: expect something to go wrong. It removes the element of betrayal.Micro-Choice – When you can’t change the situation, change your response: tone of voice, words, or where you put your energy.Gratitude Anchor – Even in chaos, there’s usually one small, good thing to hold onto. Name it.

Creative POV: Making Meaning From Disruption

At its heart, creativity is nothing but a shift in perspective. It’s the ability to take the same screw in the tire, the same line in the bank, the same words from a grandfather — and see them as signals, not setbacks.

That’s how ruts become paths again. That’s how frustration turns into fuel. That’s how we move from dancing as fast as we can to realizing we don’t always need to dance at all. Sometimes, the plate can wobble, and nothing breaks. Sometimes, the pause is the point.

Invitation

Every day, someone’s plans get derailed. Every week, someone is asked to solve a problem they never saw coming. The question is never whether disruption will happen. The question is always: What will you do with it?

For me, the answer is this:
I try to expect the wobble. I try to listen for the signal. I try to let the shift in perspective show me something I couldn’t see before.

And I wonder: what about you? Do you breathe? Do you count? Do you laugh it off, or file it away as a story to tell later? Maybe your way of steadying the plates is exactly the pearl someone else needs to hear.

If you do, consider sharing it — it may be the pearl that steadies someone else.

This past week I found myself knee-deep in noise — the digital kind and the everyday kind.
Emails stacked with spam. The phone ringing with “likely spam” warnings. News cycles circling the same headlines with a thousand competing opinions, half of them disguised as sales pitches. Even at the grocery store, a row of impulse buys seemed less like food and more like carefully designed interruptions.

But then came clarity: what’s mine to carry, what’s mine to invest — is time and energy.

The Seed of It

Over dinner with my daughter and son-in-law, I watched the shift that happens when life presses close. His father’s health is failing. These are strong, accomplished people, but suddenly their calendars and ambitions bent under the weight of something deeper. Priorities re-ordered in real time. A silent reminder that everything we fight for eventually reduces to what matters most.

We are gladiators, all of us. Each day, thrown into the ring — sometimes prepared, sometimes not. Every fight costs energy. Every choice spends time. But how often do we assess the trade? None of us knows the life of the battery. None of us can see the balance left in the wallet.

What Noise Is Designed to Do

Noise isn’t random. It is engineered to steal time and energy. To keep us in patterns, comfortable ruts, autopilot days. Survival disguised as progress.

But art — in its many forms — exists to break that inertia. A song, a story, a painting, even a single phrase of graffiti on a wall. They disrupt. They spark. They remind us that life is more than repetition, more than the next item on the to-do list.

A Glimpse From My Own Life

I grew up surrounded by micro-stories, tossed around the dinner table or repeated at the right moment. I didn’t realize until later that they weren’t just entertainment — they were lessons, pearls of wisdom.

“Do it now — it’s later than you think.”
“People who travel the same path only dig ruts.”
“If you’re not the lead dog, the view never changes.”

My grandfather and father spoke in fragments that became fuel. It was drip teaching, wisdom arriving in phrases that stayed long after the moment passed. That language still lives in me, shaping the way I see noise and the way I guard against it.

Noise is engineered to steal time — art is designed to give it back.

The Takeaway

You will spend your entire life with yourself. Be who you want to be.
Invest your time and energy wisely.
And may you have God’s speed in fighting the noise.

Why Waldo Still Matters

Every book begins with a question that won’t leave you alone. For me, Finding Waldo Within started with the quietest of questions: What happens when you lose your place in your own life? Not through disaster or drama, but through drift. That kind of slow disconnection doesn’t make headlines, but it changes everything.

Waldo’s story became my way of asking: how do you return to yourself when you’ve gone missing inside your own life?

The Heart of the Story

At its core, Finding Waldo Within is about presence — the kind of presence that can turn an ordinary morning into a threshold. It’s about fatherhood, about the relationships that tether us even when we’re untethered inside. And it’s about second chances — not just with other people, but with ourselves.

Creative Compass: Ripples That Carry Forward

One of the earliest sparks for the book came from a memory of my own father, a day at the lake, and a lesson disguised as humor. That moment found its way into Waldo’s story almost unchanged:

“Even the smallest rock makes ripples in a quiet pond.”
His father’s voice carried across the water as Waldo tossed pebbles into the still surface, frustrated by empty casts.

“It’s not the size of the action that matters. It’s what you choose to do with it. Even a minor effort can create a ripple bigger than you’d expect.”

And then came the knowing grin, the inevitable wink of humor: “Or maybe the fish just don’t like rocks in their home, huh?”

It wasn’t a lecture. It was a pearl, slipped into the ordinary, softened with a laugh so it didn’t weigh too heavy. That’s what stuck with Waldo — and with me. The truth that even the smallest choice, made with intention, can ripple outward.

Sparks & Echoes: What Readers Have Found

Many readers have told me that Waldo’s story nudged them into reflection — journaling after a chapter, revisiting old memories, or starting conversations they’d put off. What they often describe isn’t a grand breakthrough. It’s ripples. Small shifts that accumulate. Which is exactly the point.

Invitation Forward

If you’ve read Finding Waldo Within, I’d love to know:
What was one ripple moment for you — in the book or in your own life — that carried further than you expected?

And if you haven’t stepped into Waldo’s story yet, the door is open. Sometimes the smallest question — Where did I lose myself? — is the beginning of finding your way home.