Shutter Sisters

Following Our Dreams All the Way Home

By

shuttersister%20dad%20and%20mg.jpg
This is my father.
Nicotine stained, work-worn, full of fire, fueled by possibility.

He is a rascal, a maverick, a speculator, a pirate.  
He is hopeful.  He is unchanging.  He is mine.

He takes the long way home, so I can see the sunset across the bridge.  He tells stories about the car, how he bought it for seven hundred and eleven dollars a few months ago.  How they charge him next to nothing for insurance because they don’t expect him to be able to drive a thirty-year old car this fast.  I can barely hear him over the roar of the engine, over the sound of the wind whipping my hair around my face.  

We soar down the road like a rocket.

My whole life I can barely remember him even though I grew up in the house we both call our home.  He is busy.  He is traveling.  He is gone.  My mother pulls her coat over her pregnant belly in the winter and goes out to the patio to chop wood for the fireplace.  I’m sure there is a good reason for this, but I cannot remember it.  Where is my father?  I do not know.

The parts I do remember are like this.  He is calling home.  He is helping some homeless guy he just met. He is bringing home some Austrian backpackers who are shocked that they lock the churches here, and now they have nowhere to sleep.  He is talking to the man who is determined to end his life.  He is driving some guy to the emergency room, because he found him stabbed on the street.   He is collecting wildflowers off the side of the highway, because they are beautiful.  He is bringing home flowers for all of us, because we are his little women.

All this, I understand, with all my heart.

When he doesn’t call it is because he is smoking cigarettes in his office, adding up his dreams in lines of little numbers written in pen on paper napkins.  He is at the airport.  He is with the client at a restaurant.  He is selling something.  He is working harder than any man has ever worked before. He is waiting for this deal to come through.  He is waiting for his ship to come in. No matter what, there is always work and traveling and the sound of the television and the numbers on the napkins.  No matter what.

This I make peace with over years, over time.  I extract all the numbers until dreams form like poems on my napkins.  I learn to follow these dreams (just as he followed his) with all my heart.  

We are almost to the bridge now.  He tells me about the car, and how happy it makes him.  He tells me how beautiful the stars are overhead, when he drives with the top down late at night.  He tells me how they make him think of me.  How much he knows I would enjoy the view.   In this moment, his heart is as expansive as the sky above, and I can’t believe how lucky I am—to experience his love for me in this moment, so perfect, so complete.

He slows down at the top of the bridge, so I can capture the sunset.   I take twenty pictures as fast as I can, but in the end none means as much to me as this.   What more could I need than this love?  This forgiveness?  The memory of his hand at the wheel as we follow our dreams all the way home?

 +++++++++++++++++++++

May you discover the story of your life today, dear sisters, as you look through the lens with love in your eyes and hope in your soul.  Do you have a photo that is dear to you because of the story it tells your heart?   I’d be delighted to see your links in the comments below.

Comments

  1. Jen, dear Jen. I am so taken by this photo and by this story. This story that breaks my heart only to pour it full to over flowing with hope and gratitude. I am weepy now and appreciating my own father and how much I love him and everything he is (and even what he isn’t). Thank you for sharing this with us Jen. Your sharing is a blessing.

  4. Oh this story explains a lot – you are truly your father’s daughter in your sense of adventure, the simple awe you bring to life, your own endlessly expansive heart.

  5. Incredible!!! I feel like I just left the theater after seeing the best movie ever….so emotional on so many levels. How lucky you are to have those memories, that story, that photo!!! How lucky your dad is that you have such a deep understanding and love for him. Thank you so much for sharing!

  6. This is amazing! It makes me miss my dad more than ever and it makes me hope that my kids understand why my husband works so hard and has to be away from home so often.
    I usually take photos of other people’s moments or emotions I want to savor in my family, but you have inspired me to photograph with my soul and tell my own story. Thank you!

  8. Your father must be so proud to have a daughter who appreciates him so much for the person that he is and is able to express that appreciation so beautifully in both words and pictures. That photo is so strong and definitely tells a story. I’ve taken pictures of babies hands, but never thought to take pictures of an older persons hands. I don’t know why though, as you get older the hands seem to tell you so much about a person and as much as they all seem to look alike, I know I’ll always recognize my own parents’ hands and I should capture them on film in case someday their hands are not here to look at anymore. Thank you for this inspiration!

  10. That was just beautiful. The story and the photo are just incredibly heartfelt and rich. What a way to start my day. Thanks for this one.

    I hesitate to post a link. I want to savor your story like I would a good film or book I just finished. I don’t want to break the mood. I want to drive home with your story in my head in silence.I suspect a lot of people will feel the same.

    If you want to see one of the photos telling one of the stories in my heart though, you can wander over here:

    http://tracienolesross.com/sketchbook/?p=111

  13. My father and I both share a love for photography, and we are both stubborn squareheads, as my mother likes to say. Although we don’t have deep conversations, we understand each other. We just know what each other is thinking. The thought of disappointing him makes me feel awful inside.

    Although he is tough on the exterior, he is a big teddy bear on the inside. He will always be my daddy, and I will always be his daddy’s girl!

    http://www.flickr.com/photos/jlynn28/2350618933/in/set-72157604196862005

  14. Wow. What a story. This made me want to look through my lens differently. See if I can record the story more than just a moment.

  16. What a moving picture and moving words to go with it. Sometimes a picture can just capture so much, like you did with this one. Wonderful post.

  18. Oh my gosh. I can’t say just how beautiful this image and words are. Thank you for sharing your story. I, too, love stories, especially family stories. I try to record them when I can, and I’m starting to use my blog more for stories. I have no photo today, but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the post.

  20. your words are beautiful. this is so very well said, this is many fathers. this is many husbands. this is many wives married to them, this is many daughters raised in their homes. i will look for the story of my life today. thank you for this!

  22. and that photo is stunning. It stopped me in my tracks, so evocative..
    and the tones are lush and perfect.

    beautiful work all around dear one.

  27. You are so blessed to still have your Dad in your life. I never knew my Dad as an adult, he died when I was 18. But, it sounds to me like you have a complete grasp of what a treasure that is.

  30. Wow. Thank you so much for sharing that. If I ever achieve anything half so beautifully evocative, I will be satisfied.

  34. That was GORGEOUS. So heartfelt and moving. So much love.

    I recently took a picture of my brother’s hands and the leftover dishes from a shared lunch together that I adore.

    (it’s here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/73562249@N00/2342282196/in/set-72157603849559437/

    Later wondered why I love it so much, it’s not the most technically brilliant photo–not by a long shot. But sometimes these photos tell us stories, sometimes there is so much hidden behind the picture, and sometimes a photo is the image made manifest of our love and emotion. That’s why I love it so.

    Thanks for a simply exquisite post!

  35. This is perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. Weeping. I am literally weeping, here in my workplace cubicle. Jen Lemen, although I have never met you, I admire you, endlessly. Your words inspire and touch so many of us out in the world — and although we will probably never get the chance to meet, please know that you are able to change a person’s life in 500 words or less. And that, my friend, is a true gift of spirit & heart.

    Thank you.

  36. I have fallen in love with your father much like a daughter would. How touchingly beautiful. Not only are you a wonderful photographer, you are a superb writer as well. Thank you for this.

  38. My WORD, JEN!!! You can write so incredibly beautifully. I wait every time I check your blog (or here), with bated breath. Will this be the post that touches my soul? The post that brings tears to my eyes? The post that makes me feel like someone grew up in a family kinda like mine? The post that makes me want to love big, bigger than big? And I’m so moved and excited and filled with love when I am rewarded with a post like this one. You are amazing.

    Such similar dad’s we do have. I giggle when I think about it. My dad’s hands look just like your dad’s. I need a picture of them. And a story. Thanks for the inspiration!

  39. What a touching post. Here’s an image of my dad – waiting calmly and happily to take his part in my stepsister’s wedding. Ever ready with the crossword puzzle book, he found a quiet spot to keep himself busy! I love the shot of him – it’s one of my favorites from the entire wedding day!

    http://www.flickr.com/photos/23630286@N05/2331096185/

  40. Your dad sounds exactly like and completely unlike my own in many ways. Thanks for sharing your story in typical jen lemen fashion (ie, soul-stirring, heart-tugging, emotionally true with no fake sentimentality) and helping me remember the best parts of my dad and my relationship with him. He passed away in 2000. I wish now I had a photo of his beautiful, gentle hands….

  41. How is it possible that everything you write reads like a love letter…?
    Your heart opens wide enough to include all of us, and I feel so rich because of it. Thank you, lovely Jen.

  43. What an amazing post – photo, words, all of it.

    This one is my friends little girl. Despite all of her vast struggles, she is a happy playful child. She beautiful, and greets me with a loud "Aunt Ally" every time I see her. I get a hug and a smile that lights my world. She’s amazing and this photo reminds me to see the world and the struggles of it through her eyes.

    http://www.flickr.com/photos/akadragonflyphotography/2369528163/

  44. What a wonderful post to click on on this rainy, stay-at-home night. This is story was so moving, it reminds me of my grandfather. He did things like this too. Thank you for putting something this personal out there, it’s truly touching.

  45. I just love this photo – and the attached story too. It made me want to rush out and take a photo (one of my favourite pass times)

  47. Thanks Jenny for sharing this amazing Love story between you and your dad.
    Lucky girl! You’re daddy’s girl for real.
    Thanks again.
    Fatou

  53. jen, you never fail to blow my mind. lovely.

    thank you for bringing me to tears and appreciation for my own father.

  58. oh jen, having gone to your excellent blog entry today and being fortunate enough to find this among your favorite things about miami, my heart is so full right now. first of all, STUNNING photo. second of all, totally and utterly weeping through the whole read. how perfect to sum it all up in those three words: "he is mine."

    you are, no doubt, his too.

  59. oh, my, this post is breathtaking and beautiful. I love everything about it. I love how it captures the human side of things but also the part of the spirit that has no bounds.

  63. This was so truly moving. My father’s hands are always dirty. This was a source of shame for me when I was younger, and afraid of my own shadow in the world. Now, when he raises my babies high in the air and promises to teach them how to fix cars, fly kites, build their dreams with the touch of their own fingertips, I’m awed, proud, amazed by those dirty, beautiful, hands.
    Just WOW!

  64. Wow. I found your site somehow today by clicking and roaming through other blogs. Your photo and essay about your dad were so touching. I have nothing with which to compare these, so my inner child replayed my childhood game of "that’s my dad." "That’s my dad" got me through some miserable times when I was a kid (and beyond). I seldom play it anymore, except in instances like today when your essay made me wish that that’s my dad!

  65. this one is OF me, not BY me, but… ( this blog post was originally written in March, 2008)

    http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xA4UbUiNev8/R-KlDEYdDlI/AAAAAAAAAXE/5rSVeBZHuCk/s1600-h/mama.jpg

    I’m standing there in a giant terrycloth bathrobe, holding her not-all- that- tiny- almost- ten- pounds- newborn body up against me, cuddling her, with her face close to mine. We are in front of the living room window, not really noticing the camera, and I am looking out at the sunshine of a late fall day.

    It was after the end of a long pregnancy, a seemingly even longer labour, and the end of worrying about whether I would ever become a mom. I’d lost a pregnancy before I conceived her, and that baby would be celebrating a birthday right about now. The shamrocks and green carnations remind me of that loss, but this year, it doesn’t seem to hurt as much. It finally feels like someone else’s life.

    The picture embodies one of those happy moments I carry with me…. that moment when I said "it’s a girl? really?" in the delivery room. I may have made some choices (or not taken action, and made choices in that way) that I wish I could reconsider, but being a Mom has not EVER been something I regret doing. I already knew that, on that September day.

  66. I am in tears after reading this. Such a rich gorgeous story of great forgiveness and understanding and a beautiful photograph to capture it all. Thank you for writing this.

  67. Jen,
    I am reading this now…its late. But not too late to tell you what a gifted woman you are. You have a gift of making people feel. I am estranged from my father at the moment..and this story really made it hit home. Count your blessings. And thanks…

  69. I popped over here from Andrea’s blog and oh this story and photograph are so beautiful. Makes me wish I had a photo of my fathers hands. Thanks for sharing this.

    Kate