This week, I did a photo shoot with my very pregnant daughter, whose baby girl is due on February 2. I envisioned photographing her in front of my dad’s living room windows with the afternoon sun shining through the sheer drapes. We stopped by his house after her midwife appointment, and he wasn’t home. So I transformed the living room into a photography studio, and we created some feminine magic. My dad returned home just as we were leaving, which made it feel like the photo shoot was timed perfectly and meant to be – just the two of us in our own private, sacred space.
Here are a couple of my favorite photos from our session:
I envisioned all the images being black and white, but I loved how golden this one looked, so I left it in color (although it looks great in grayscale, as well):
Isn’t she beautiful? A twenty-something vision of hopeful, glowing anticipation.
While the two photos above are my favorites, I found a third one compelling for different reasons.
I love how one of her hands is touching her belly, and the other is touching the sheer curtain. It makes me think of a veil between our human world of physical form and the mysterious realm(s) beyond our understanding. Her daughter is less than three weeks away from passing through that veil, and when she is in labor, I plan to be (as she puts it) her doula, photographer, and mom.
About a year and a half ago, my mother passed through the veil as she departed from our world, and I assisted her, too – although she exited in the middle of the night when I was resting in another room. I think of how difficult it has been to adjust to life without her physical presence and how painful the grieving process has been. But the universe doesn’t just take away. It also gives back. And now we are awaiting the arrival of a baby! A new ray of light making its way to Earth. For the past year and a half, I have grieved the loss of my mother’s loving, nurturing presence in my life, and now it is time for me to love and nurture a brand new generation as the matriarch of the family. Rather than seeking love, I am undergoing an amazing process of becoming love as I prepare for this new role and imagine my mother and grandmother (who died six years ago) standing invisibly behind me.
The image of my daughter touching the sheer curtain that allows the light to pass through reminds me of an image I captured when my mother was less than three weeks away from slipping through the veil.
This image was photographed in the same room as my daughter’s pregnancy photos, and I love how the light shines through so brightly. It is an image of my daughter playing “Hallelujah” on the piano for my mother on Mother’s Day. At the time, we didn’t know how much longer she would remain with us, but we knew it wouldn’t be long.
Similarly, I took the pictures of my daughter, not knowing how long it will be until she gives birth. But it won’t be long. The juxtaposition of the two photos strikes me as powerful and poignant.
There’s another element in the images that is worth contemplating: They both take place in the living room, which is the room (in my house) in which my most vivid dreams of my mother take place. I had one such dream last week, although I’m not sure it’s accurate to call it a dream because it took place within 15 minutes of getting into bed, and I don’t think I had fallen asleep yet but had drifted into a dreamy, in-between state. All of a sudden, I was downstairs in the living room and heard a knock on the window. It was nighttime. I looked out the window, and my mom was right outside. Her face was close to the window, and she looked just like she did when she was still healthy. I moved closer to the window and realized I could hear her voice. She was trying to tell me something. Then I noticed the window wasn’t all the way closed. It was open several inches so only the screen was between us, which made it easier to hear her. I leaned close to the window and asked, “Do you have a message for me?” At that point, it seemed she faded out, and I couldn’t hear her anymore. Then I woke up, feeling exhilarated because it seemed she really did just visit me.
Perhaps my mom doesn’t speak to me in dreams because I can hear her when I’m awake – but first she needed to get my attention when I was in a receptive state. I sensed that was the purpose of this dreamy visit, and I got up, intuitively knew what to do, sat quietly, and tuned in to hear what she had to say.
Whenever I’ve “dreamed” of my mom lately, it’s taken place in the living room. And there’s always some kind of barrier that she’s either on the other side of or passes through for a brief time before returning to wherever she came from. So the living room and the window that separates the living room from the world beyond is something I’m really drawn to in the images above. To see them together has an effect that strikes me as greater than the sum of the parts. There is something transcendent about the pairing, and I couldn’t resist sharing it with you.
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