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Four Generations

On the day Sarah called, the trees were long skeletal, the ground was frozen and frosted with snow, and the air had an angry bite when you drew it into your lungs. We talked of strong women, togetherness, being present with each other and with ourselves. Gathering in a digital, busy world.

Noticing.

That simple, yet sometimes challenging skill of just noticing.  Not acting, not solving, not doing. Just noticing.

And then she told me that on countless Saturdays, year in and year out, four generations of strong, intelligent, beautiful women gather in her space.  Grandmother, mother, herself, her children. And it was time to document it.

Several months later, when green saturated our world, I did just that. Let me show there was nourishment in every way.

I leave you here with my view and Sarah’s spectacularly beautiful story in her own words.

Living in this Light

by the extraordinarily talented Sarah Miller

I stir cream into oats, feel the heat rising from the stove, breathe in the steam below my face and the easy breeze coming in through my kitchen window, bringing the morning sunlight. I hear my daughters in the next room, their faces pressed almost against the tall glass windows, waiting. Last night I shook out the tablecloth I use for this occasion, set the table with clean napkins — sometimes a rarity with small hands that still prefer fingers to forks — and pretty plates and cups for coffee and tea. I light candles and say a small prayer of gratitude and I too, wait.

Eventually, a car pulls into our driveway and my children go wild, as if elephants have arrived, or a troupe of fairies. My 98-year-old grandmother navigates the steps into our home with two bouncing, shrieking beings circling around her, their joyous energy spinning like fractals of light, as does my mother, trailing with bags laden with fresh fruit and surprises behind.

Young girl holds onto window and stretches out leg.

Four generations gather in kitchen

We greet one another in my kitchen’s dim light with kisses and the effort of trying to say seventeen things at once. “I brought you this,” and “Did you see what…?” and “Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you.” I turn back to the stove and making a meal, readying my offering of warm oatmeal sweetened by blueberries, softened by cream, full of everything I don’t have the words to say. I don’t do this for anyone else.

Toddler in yellow dress touches her great-grandmother's hearing aid

Woman stirs pot of oatmeal, steam rises

Kitchen sink overlooking spring weather

Grandmother helps granddaughter wash her hands in the kitchen sink

When we gather there is something with us — it’s not dramatic to call it a reverence, a ritual of respect for these gifts we have; a recognition, however simple, however ordinary, of what we hold close. None of us are too young for it, or too old. My five-year-old practices pouring from the blue teapot. My two year old welcomes the attention of her great-grandmother spoon-feeding her oatmeal with the smile of the sun. It occurs to me that this may be the tenderest space in my life, a kind of ringing-around me that supports and sustains me, encloses and enfolds me, like a monastery wall.

black and white. Two girls sit at table and bring hand to mouth at same time.

Top down view. Young girl puts berries in her oatmeal on colorful table.

Black and white. Four generations of women at the table. Mom and grandmother both blow on young girls' oatmeal at the same time

Small girl in yellow dress in big room with books

Black and white. Four generations of women at the table. Mom touches daughter's hair while she sits on the floor and rest of the family is at kitchen table

young girl rests on makeshift nest of pillows and quilt on the floor

Young girl pulls up her yellow dress while getting on red trike

Four generations of women gather on a porch on a sunny dayyoung girl bites the top of colored pencils while 4 generations of women sit on porch

Later we will move to the next room together, to sing or fold the baskets of laundry I never manage to disappear before these mornings or just talk. The children stay close, circling, sometimes jumping on our mini-trampoline shouting, “Watch me, Little Grammie! Watch me, Great Grammie!” as I marvel, in moments when I remember to, at how they open under this light — how love loosens and cracks us wide, how it both bolsters and emboldens us, saying simultaneously you are never alone and your possibilities are boundless. Isn’t there something unbelievably holy in this?

Open song book; 4 generations sitting on couch and singing song from song bookYoung girl turns the page of a book while sitting on mother and great-grandmother's lap. Top down view. 4 generations sit on the couch reading and singing together.

black and white. Young girl eats a cheese stick while listening to her great-grandmother read a book.

In her novel, The Gap of Time, a retelling of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, Jeannette Winterson writes, “Sometimes it doesn’t matter that there was any time before this time. Sometimes it doesn’t matter that it’s night or day or now or then. Sometimes where you are is enough. It’s not that time stops or that it hasn’t started. This is time. This caught moment opening onto a lifetime.”

Focus on growth chart on side of bookcase with two young girls in the background

Side view of mom holding daughter on chair in driveway with view of garage.

I look at these women whose bodies I came from and these small girls whose bodies mine made and I see this ordinary Saturday morning, this circle of who we are together, this spinning of our lives. I see our wrinkles and our smiles and our hands. I see my place in this wheel of family and grace as if it is all illuminated just for me — this caught moment opening onto a lifetime, so that I don’t miss it, so that I am right here, right now, staying present, stirring the oatmeal, living in this light.   –by Sarah Miller

I’ve documented Sarah’s girls several times–after birth, at home with both newborns, on crisp, fall days under cheerful trees–and I’ve read her work, have swapped stories for hours, and have been still in her presence, and all what you just read is truth in every way.

 

xo,

Jen

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Beautifully Ordinary is a trademark of Jen Lucas Photography, LLC.