Pay Attention to the Light

(inspired by a talk from Earl Palmer at Princeton Theological Seminary)

Source note: This post grows out of a lecture by Earl Palmer, a longtime pastor and author best known for serving as Senior Pastor at University Presbyterian Church in Seattle (and earlier in Manila and Berkeley). In that talk, he quoted G.K. Chesterton’s line, “Art is the signature of man,” from The Everlasting Man, and challenged listeners to: celebrate the good, tell the hard truth, and point to hope. That framework lit up a lot of my own memories.

Have you ever stood somewhere so quiet your breathing is the loudest thing around?

I have. At the headwaters of the Colorado River, 10,184 feet up, where the water is more bog than current and the air makes you count your steps. I remember thinking, This calm trickle will carve canyons and power cities? We followed that river for days, the twists, the small falls, and the long list of towns that depend on every gallon, talking with people whose lives run on its schedule. It stuck with me: big outcomes can start embarrassingly small. A quiet spring becomes a lifeline.

Kent at the beginning of the Colorado River.

That wasn’t the first time stillness taught me something. Years earlier, wandering the forests of Alaska, I learned you either slow down or you miss everything. I’d stand still and watch how light filters through trees and scatters across the ground. Like clouds, shadows change by the minute. That patience taught me to watch and wait. The right moment comes if you’re ready for it; and I try to carry that into every shoot.

The sun playing with the trees.

From under a glacier in Alaska.

In front of a glacier in Alaska.

I’ve spent most of my life in school, about fifty years so far, and I’m close to finishing both my MFA and PhD. I’m excited for what’s next: taking what I’ve learned in classrooms and on sets and putting it to work for students and for every story I get to tell. Alaska taught me how to see. The Colorado taught me to respect beginnings. Years of short films, news pieces, investigative projects, and promos taught me how to build something honest out of what’s in front of me.

On the north rim of the Grand Canyon.

One hard lesson along the way: media is never truly neutral. The choice to cover a story is already a decision. A beautiful shot can hide the truth. A sloppy edit can make a good person look bad; or drain the soul out of a story that matters. I’ve seen how much accuracy and fairness mean when a piece touches real lives. That’s why I try to slow down, check facts, and earn trust, even when the deadline is loud.

Back to Earl Palmer’s challenge (riffing on Chesterton):

1. Celebrate the good in the world.

2. Tell the hard truth, even when it hurts.

3. Point to hope, however small.

   
   

I can follow that. Celebrate what’s in front of me, the light, the land, the people. Don’t ignore mistakes or pain, my own or anyone else’s. And always show the next step, even if it’s a small one.

That’s the kind of work I want to be known for as I move into this next chapter: clear, honest, and useful. Shot by shot. Class by class. Project by project.

Pay attention to the light. Tell the truth. Leave people with a reason to keep going. That’s the signature I’m proud to leave on the world.