I Have My Father's Eyes

Every now and then, a picture will appear somewhere that really touches me. I don't always know why it does...sometimes it triggers a deep memory that I have repressed, or it's just so clearly an expression of God's beauty that I can't ignore it.

Recently a friend, fellow photographer and my gentle mentor posted a picture on Facebook of her father. I didn't take the time to read the caption because I was so captivated by the image, but it was clear to me that it was somebody that she was related to. In his face I could see her smile, her eyes, her expressions; and if I could meet him, I imagined that I could also see her gestures. It's funny how you can know someone only casually, but see a picture that bears a resemblance to that person and suddenly you feel like you've known them for years. It was a photo that she had taken of her dad so that he could have a nice Facebook profile picture. After I left a comment, I expected tons of people to see the same resemblance and post what I had, but as fate would have it, I was the only one who had.

I thought it was odd that no one else said anything about the resemblance...and the more I looked at the picture, the stronger the emotion became that it evoked in me. I knew right then that God was speaking into my heart about my own father, and about Himself. I knew I would have to write about it before I forgot, or before it became just a fleeting emotion.

At birth, I was given up for adoption by my Filipina mother. My biological father was an American serviceman who was stationed in the Philippines during the late 50s. He is not named on my birth certificate, and I have only one picture of him that was taken with my mother before I was born. I don't know anything of his background except that he was a classical musician and a decorated Air Force pilot.

I keep that photo on the refrigerator so that I can see it every day and be reminded that I do indeed look like somebody. I have his ears and his mouth. I have my mom's forehead and her eyes. There are some days that I walk by it purposely so that I can connect with the two people that created me that I have never met.

Some days I have great sadness because I have never gotten to look straight at them in real life and see all the qualities that make me who I am. Maybe I have her smile and her gestures. Maybe I laugh like my dad and have his intellect. There are days when I wish that I could just take a random picture of them and see something of myself there; and even more, have some one else see something of myself in there. I wish I could meet them and watch them walk, talk, laugh, tell stories and eat food.

But this is not to be, at least, for now.

God has given me four beautiful children who I look at and see myself; and when I look really closely, I can see the resemblance between my children and the grandparents that they have never met. Each one bears a physical mark that is shared with one or the other of my parents. All four inherited musical talent that I never would have imagined could be passed down in such painful silence.

Then there are photos...Lorraine Varela's image of her father with all the striking similarities that I wish I could have posted here; and the two photos above that I was able to catch while happening into a private moment after a wedding between a bride and her grandfather. If you look real close, you can see a small tear on his cheek. Maybe there weren't obvious resemblances between the two in the photo, but I could see it that day in real life.

So here's to you, Lorraine, and you, Kim. May you always see and cherish the resemblance that you bear to your family.

As for me, I have my Father's eyes.

Under Jeremy's Hood

During the summer before my senior year of high school, I took an Auto Mechanics class. It was taught by one of the cutest teachers (at least I thought) at Redondo Union High School, Russ Parkinson. I'm not sure I had any real interest in learning about cars...my dad was a car mechanic par excellence, and any automobile I would ever own would be impeccably maintained by him. I would never need to get any oil on my hands.

My good friend and partner in crime, Pat Garrison (otherwise known now as Trish Sipek) and I sacrificed our summer mornings to oil changes, gapping spark plugs, changing tires, jumping batteries, checking and replacing fluids, repairing windshield wipers, taking carburetors apart and putting them back together, and replacing mufflers...I hated that the solvent we used to get the grease off of our hands took off my fingernail polish and I whined incessantly that my claustrophobia should preclude me from having to scoot underneath the car on my back. Trish and I were the only girls in the class and there was no way we were going to be given any special treatment.

We thought we were just indulging our infatuation with Mr. Parkinson, but in reality, we were becoming a force to be reckoned with in the world of auto repair. Later when we both owned cards, we could talk shop with most of the guys that we hung out with and when our cars needed mechanical attention, we could not be bamboozled into spending money on things that weren't necessary. And we didn't pay the outrageous hourly rate charged by most mechanics, because we knew all the right people in all the right places who would work on our cars for free or inexpensively because we knew their lingo.

The time came for me to pass the mantle to my daughter Lexie, who recently took a 9 month course in Auto Maintenance. Now she understand how her car works and can car talk with the best of them. I know that if she breaks down somewhere, she won't panic, and if she needs to, she can change her tire and jump start her car when her battery dies.

I have always loved all things mechanical. I love the underside of cars with all the hoses and wires. I have read and re-read the manual that goes with my car and love to try to diagnose my car troubles before my mechanic does.

So, I say thank you to Russ Parkinson, who made me cut my perfectly polished fingernails and who helped me overcome my fear of being on my back underneath a car, and ultimately taught me that there is true beauty underneath the hood of a car.

The Price of Serenity

I have always loved the sound of water...dripping, flowing, rippling, cascading. I grew up on the beaches of Southern California where the sound of waves crashing on the shore was as much a part of my life as having the radio on.

Now I live in Snohomish, a suburb of Seattle, WA. I can't hear waves crashing, I don't have the assaulting smell of salty air that hits my nose the minute I open my front door. Sand doesn't hide in every pair of shoes that I own.

I live just a short walk from a beautiful man made lake that I can see from my living room window. During each season, there is a different view of it and different ways that the light hits it and sends its beautiful messages into my living room.

But I really miss the sound of water.

So I asked my husband, a landscape designer and manager, if I could have a fountain in the front of my house where I could hear its music.

If you come over to my house, you will be swallowed up by my enchanting landscape. Everything growing in my yard has a name and its favorite way to grow. It is the most peaceful, visually captivating landscape on the planet.

But the sweetest breath of God's fresh air is the fountain and the little pond that surrounds it. Water flows up through the rock and cascades over the side into the home of scads of little tadpoles and other water creatures. As dusk, you will hear a symphony of frogs that are audible throughout the neighborhood. The melody and rhythm of the background music is provided by the gentle trickling of the water. The magnum opus has no beginning and no end.

If only I could get as close as those leaves, floating on the surface.